The Doctor's Patient
by SearchingforLethe
Summary: The one thing Spencer Reid feared the most was insanity. And now, kidnapped by a confusing new UnSub and subjected to his experiments, his fear might just become his reality.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:**** The Doctor's Patient**

**Summary:**** The BAU is called to a small town in the Catskills where five men have been discovered, dead, embalmed and sewn already with a folder containing medical records kept by the UnSub. The UnSub, called The Doctor, is unable to find what is wrong with his medical theories until he discovers a factor that could alter the results of his procedures dramatically. And that leads him to Spencer Reid. With the youngest member of the team in the UnSub's hands, the BAU members fight against time to find him before he becomes like the other victims- and uncover what this mad doctor is trying to discern.**

**Rating:**** Currently T, subject to change at writer's discretion.**

**Disclaimer:**** Criminal Minds and all its associated characters are property to CBS and no profit is being made from this story.**

**Chapter One: Touch of Madness**

'_There is no great genius without a touch of madness.' –_Seneca

He was disappointed.

Oh yes, he was very disappointed.

His theory was wrong, his patient was dead and he had gotten no further along in his research than he had been before. _Damn it._ He threw his papers, neatly organized and meticulously written in small, loopy writing, onto his desk and stood, rubbing his chin in thought. What to do now. Well, he would have to get rid of the body. That was for sure.

Casting a glance to the deceased man, he sighed heavily. His efforts and ideas and thoroughly studied hypothesis were proven wrong once more! Where was he messing up? Why was everything coming back negative? He looked over his notes, his eyes scanning the cramped words quickly and efficiently. Where were the holes? Where was it flawed?

Maybe it wasn't with him, but with his patients? He had been careful to select patients with similar histories and health. He had even made sure that their looks and personalities were parallel to each other! He couldn't risk the variable that would have been created if they were too different!- but what if they were too similar? Maybe he needed to branch out. Not too much, but somewhere.

Scooping down to his filing cabinet, he pulled out his documentation on every patient, studying their intake forms and weighing which change would be the most beneficial. Not the looks- looks weren't important enough to make that his variable. Personalities? No, too important.

As his clear blue eyes worked down the pages, studied all the patients at once, he came across a piece of information, identical on all the intake forms:

_History of Mental Illness in Family:__ None_

Was that it? Did he need someone who's family tree grew strong and heavy in lunacy? Where the seeds were already planted and all he had to do were tend to them until they grew into what he desired, what he needed for his theories to work?

It was worth a shot.

Deciding that this was what needed to be altered, he stood from his chair and walked to the dead man, eyes open wide and jaw slack, a dry, pink tongue peeking out from the cracked lips. With a heavy sigh through his nose, the man reached up and tenderly closed the eyes of the cadaver. Reaching down underneath the stretcher the body was lying on, bound to the railings, he found a small, silver box on one of the installed shelves that ran the length of the device so as to provide convenient storage for medical supplies. He removed the box and placed it on top of the stretcher, opening its lid to reveal the contents. Needles of various sizes and eyes, and spools of multiple, flesh colored thread.

After a moment of thought and experimentation in which he held different spools up against the man's cheeks, he finally decided on a long and thin needle, matched with a pale, peach color of thread. He threaded the needle adeptly with quick, well-practiced hands and began to sew the mouth shut, the thread virtually invisible.

He picked the appropriate color.

When the dead man was sewed with mortician-prestige and his cheeks tinted with a pink rouge, he grabbed the hands, settling them on his chest, overlapping the other. Taking a step back, the man admired his work for a moment. But that moment ended the second he saw that everything was in order and the only thing left to do was to inform others of his theories and experiments which had, inevitably, failed.

He walked back to his desk, shuffling together the papers he had been writing on and reforming them back into a neat and organized pile. He then placed the notes inside a manila folder, adding with it a copy of the patient's intake form. When all the required paperwork was together, he returned to the dead man, folder in hand, and carted him off and away from the room.

xXx

'_Coffee.'_

That was the first word and thought that entered the mind of the young doctor, Spencer Reid, as he rolled over in his bed, slowly moving closer to the cell phone that blinked and rang far too loudly for his liking. It took him a second, now lying on his back, before he reached over to the bed side table, twisting his body so that he could snatch the phone in his right hand.

'_I need coffee,'_ he thought again as he flipped the device open and pressed it against his ear, suppressing a yawn.

"Hullo?" he called groggily into the mouthpiece.

"Reid? It's Hotch. You need to get ready and meet us at the plane as soon as possible. We've got a case in the Catskills we need to do. You awake?" Supervisory Special Agent, Aaron Hotchner said in a voice too awake to have woken up this early. Resisting the urge to growl at his boss for being a morning person, Reid rose from his bed and nodded, feeling foolish when he realized the man couldn't see him.

"Ugh, yeah. I'm up. Getting ready now," he said, yawning shortly and as quietly as possible. The two said their curt goodbyes and then hung up, leaving the younger of the agents to get ready.

Reid walked out into his kitchen, pulling on his tan slacks in the process, and began making himself some coffee.

xXx

"So far, we have five victims," Hotch began, nodding to JJ who then produced letter sized photographs of the aforementioned victims from a folder. "Each victim has been found embalmed and sewn, with makeup done as well. Victims were also found with matching manila folders under their crossed arms. Inside the folders were medical reports similar to a patient intake form and documentation in hospitals. Notes, discussing specific experiments and hypothesis have also been found inside the folders, but they're pretty coded. Local police have yet to decode them fully yet."

Pulling the glossy paper of the photos closer, Reid looked at them, his nose crinkling in disgust. There were numerous injuries- cuts, burns, and stab wounds- littering nearly every inch of the bodies, but they were sewn together, as if the victim received medical treatment shortly after receiving the injuries. That was highly unusual. If the UnSub is torturing them for his enjoyment, why does he heal them?

Before Reid could ponder this any further, he was pulled from his thoughts by JJ, who continued the briefing.

"The police have started calling this man The Doctor. The reason being pretty obvious with his official medical records that he keeps on his victims, as well as because he also takes care of the wounds he gives them."

"Why?" Morgan asked, shrugging his shoulders. "It doesn't make sense."

JJ smiled softly at him. "Well, I guess we'll find out. Anyway, his victims are tortured physically as well as sexually. Each one has been sodomized as well as left naked when the bodies are disposed."

She paused, letting all the information sink into the sleep deprived minds of her teammates and pseudo-family. Then, she added, almost hesitantly, "The amount of time he has each victim for varies though. Some have been kept for as long as eight months, others for as little as six weeks."

The Doctor.

Medical notes.

Medical records.

Intake forms.

Repairing of injuries.

Embalming.

Reid's mind was working fast, running over all the points he had heard on the new case. Was it possible that he wasn't torturing his victims but experimenting on them? Using them as guinea pigs for a medical procedure?

"They failed his tests," he spoke softly, his eyes gazing over the pictures once more, internalizing everything about their appearances and the placement of their wounds.

"Pardon?" Rossi said, clamping a hand over his mouth as he stifled a yawn.

Licking his lips to wet them, Reid looked up and pointed to each sewn up cut and scabbing burn individually on each photo. "The wounds are all in the same place for each of these victims. He's testing them for something. Some sort of medical experiment. He's not using them as victims, but as patients."

The small cabin in the plane was silent as they digested what the prodigy before them suggested. Was that true? Could he really see himself as a doctor?

"That's why he's healing them. He doesn't care or get off on them being hurt, so when the experiment is done he fixes them up," Morgan said slowly, grabbing the photos and placing them in front of him now.

"Exactly. Maybe the reason the time span is so different is because the victims aren't responding to the procedures the way the UnSub wants. They're failing him, proving him wrong, so he needs to start over with a different patient and a different theory," Reid said, the corners of his mouth quirking upwards to a faint smile.

"I think Reid's right. It makes the most sense, even though it doesn't really explain the sodomy," Hotch said as Rossi nodded approvingly at his younger coworker. "The victim profile, JJ?" he then added, turning to the blonde women who huffed in response.

"Right, sorry, almost forgot. All victims were male, between the ages of twenty-three and twenty-seven. Thin but tall build, with an average height of five foot eleven and an average weight of one hundred and thirty two. With light brown hair and hazel eyes and a pale complexion. Family interviews have revealed that all victims have the same generalized personality, type B. Shy, socially observant and withdrawn, awkward around others," JJ trailed off there, letting her eyes quickly flick over to Reid, who had gradually grown more rigid in his stature as she read the profile report.

He fit the bill _exactly_.

And JJ wasn't the only one whose eyes travelled over to the boy genius. Throughout the report, each agent had turned their focus over to Reid, eyeing him cautiously as if he would drop dead there on the spot. No one could deny that he was the UnSub's type. But no one could say it either.

Clearing his throat, Hotch said, "That's it for the briefing. We'll be arriving there shortly, so nap now if you want." Slowly, the special agents all stood, heading over to selected areas for a short rest, but not before casting worried glances in Reid's direction first.

xXx

The man sighed heavily as he rubbed his eyes. He now sat at his office at work, a spacious, decorative room inside the hospital he worked for. As much as he enjoyed his field, he really hated his job. All the meaningless assignments- set a broken arm, stitch a busted lip- he was lucky if he got something so challenging as actual surgery on his plate! But in a small town with a small population, hospital days weren't so busy as one would find in a city or urban area.

His job, however mundane it had become, did provide at least one benefit.

With access to nearly all the medical files of everyone in the county, he had the ability to gather background checks before taking on a new, personal patient.

Yes, it was his hobby of medical research and breakthrough that really got him through his day. Going back home to work on his own theories, practice his own theories, was the highlight of his life. Of course, his last patient had not responded well to the treatments and had died on the table. A truly agonizing thing for all doctors, as it were. And so now he required a new patient. One who better fit the new qualifications required for his research.

And his computer filled with medical records of thousands would help him do that.

xXx

"Welcome Agents! I'm Officer Heath Varney, and I was running this case, prior to the FBI's intervention, of course," the middle-aged cop said as he walked the BAU team to a small, private boardroom in the back of the Police Station. He was a tall man, with a slight roundness to his belly and thinning to his hair that displayed his age. Yet his eyes were bright and youthful, shining constantly as a teasing smile played permanently on his lips.

"Now, don't get the wrong idea, but I was a little put out when I first heard that they were sending the Feds in to do _my_ case. But then I heard it was that Behavioral Analysis Unit they've got going on in Quantico and thought to myself, _'Well, this could be interesting.'_ So, I hope you don't mind if I ask lots of questions," Varney explained, almost apologetically as he unlocked the door and held it open, allowing Emily and JJ through first before the rest of the team followed suit.

"Not at all, Officer. It's always a pleasure to be of interest to others," Rossi said kindly as he took a seat surrounding the table.

Reid headed towards the back of the room, his legs still shaking slightly from the victim profile JJ described earlier that day.

_Tall, thin…Light brown hair, hazel eyes…pale…_

Even the damned personalities were parallel to Reid!

Social outcasts! Type B! Withdrawn!

Had Reid been a more emotionally based person, he probably would've suffered a massive panic attack on the carpeted floor of this foreign police station somewhere high in the Catskills. But he wasn't. He was logical and analytical. Facts first, feelings later.

And so, he took his fear, anxiety, and apprehension, and compartmentalized it, shoving it far down into a chest in his mind to be addressed later at a more appropriate time and date. With a calming breath and a tight shove on the proverbial chest for good measure, his worries were forgotten as his Special Agent took over. He paid focus to the list of suspects, past and current, being named off by Varney as well as all other information.

All he had to do was keep attentive to the case and ignore the chest in his mind as his emotions fought to overcome his logic.

Seemed easy enough.

xXx

**Author's Note:**** So, what do you guys think so far? Let me know, I love to hear all your thoughts!**

**Reid is my favorite character, I love him so much, but stories that place him in the center of conflict are the most interesting, in my opinion. Don't worry though- this story won't be the type of story where Reid's broken irreparably and it most certainly won't end in a dark manner. I love Boy Wonder too much for that!**

**Chapter Two: Between Insanity and Genius (Preview)**

"Look Reid," Morgan said, as he sent the man in question a look before turning his attention back to the road. "You're going to be fine. We're not going to let anything happen to you, alright? You're in good hands, Kid."

Reid smiled, chuckling somewhat at the nickname. From anyone else it would be indignant. "Yeah, you're right. But I can't help it. I mean me and the victims were-"

"Hey," Morgan cut him off, shooting him a serious look. "Don't think like that, man. We won't let that happen to you." The black Mazda slowed to a stop as it approached a traffic light and Morgan took this opportunity to give his friend a soft, comforting look. "You're good." The traffic light turned again, and Morgan began to move forward.

As Reid was opening his mouth to respond, he felt a sudden, harsh shove hit him in the side as his door crumpled into him. A speeding SUV crashed into Reid's side of the car, causing the car belonging to the two agents to collapse under its more significant weight. And Reid was jostled from his seat, thrown up against the roof of the car where his head made a sickening _THWACK _against it. He fell back to his seat, his head throbbing as his vision blurred and the sound of Morgan calling to him, seeing if he was alright, became white noise.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:**** Criminal Minds and all its associated characters are property to CBS and no profit is being made from this story.**

**Chapter Two: Between Insanity and Genius**

'_The distance between insanity and genius is measured only by success.' –Bruce Feirstein_

"God Damn it!" the man cursed loudly, slamming his fist against the desk, hard enough to lurch the keyboard upward. But it didn't matter. His search revealed nothing. Out of every medical record he had on his computer, everyone he had access to, not a single person fit the requirements.

Their physique was wrong.

Their personality was wrong.

Or they were just like the other patients he had- which wasn't what he needed.

Standing up and pacing around his office in frustration, he began stroking his chin in contemplation. He could move his search somewhere else- find another location where he might find more patients more suited for his studies. But he would have to start all over again. Have to work for a new hospital to get access to new records. And in this area, he would need to move in order to have a decent commute.

He growled in frustration.

It just wouldn't work.

His studies were over.

xXx

"Does it suit you, Agent Morgan?" Varney asked, watching as the tall, dark-skinned man surveyed the vehicle, a black Mazda. After a second, he shrugged in response and motioned for Reid to come over. As the young man approached, Morgan told Varney it was acceptable.

"It's not what I'm used to, but it'll work," he finished saying as Reid finally joined his side.

Turning to his teammate, he said, "You and I are going to go speak to Kasey Wilkson. She's the sister of one our victims, and also the one who spent the most time with him. They were roommates, and she phoned in the missing persons report."

Reid nodded in understanding, swallowing hard. He had never really quite forgotten about everything he packed away into that chest of his and as the case continued on, with the UnSub on the prowl for a new patient, the chest was putting up an increasingly more powerful struggle. He wanted to abandon this one case, head back to Quantico and work with Garcia. But that was out of the question.

'_This is part of the job. Don't be foolish,'_ he chided himself as he followed Morgan into the car, taking the passenger's seat.

"So where does this Kasey Wilkson live?" he asked, locking that chest up once more and mentally shaking an angry fist at it. The engine erupted into life as the ignition was turned and soon they were on the road, Morgan leading the way.

"Up by Olive. Not all too far, really. Besides, up here, the scenery is so beautiful a long car ride is okay by me," Morgan said, laughing. Reid smiled his agreement.

Growing up in Nevada, he had seen extremely different landscapes from this. Dry, yellow earth, flat plateaus with small canyons mixed in. None of that was like what he saw up here- the greenest greens of Mt. Tremper. The bluest blues of mountain skies. And the Esopus Creek that lazily made its way through gray stone shone brilliantly clear, despite the copper colored clay that coated the bottom. It really was quite nice.

If only he wasn't investigating a murder.

"Hey, you okay?" Morgan asked, pulling his thoughts away from the scenery and back to the case.

He nodded, lying. "Yeah. I'm fine. Just thinking about this book I once read on geological histories of specific regions. It mentioned this area in it, saying it was formed about three hundred and fifty years ago as a delta region. Sediments being deposited by the Taconic Mountain met in a sea, and a meteor crashed forming-"

His friend started laughing. "Okay, I asked how you were doing, not how the Catskills was doing," he said, smiling widely. Reid chuckled himself, a faint hint of blush creeping into his cheeks. _'You did it again, Spence,'_ he thought, wondering how someone supposedly so smart could not learn a lesson as simple as sticking to the relevant?

Morgan turned to him slightly before looking back at the road. "Seriously, man, how are you? You've been weird ever since JJ read the-" his words got stuck in his throat and Reid ducked his head in embarrassment. Well, he kept that fear hidden well.

Deciding it was best to explain himself, he spoke before Morgan could backtrack and apologize. "I know it's ridiculous, and statistically slim. I mean the chances of that happening are-" He was cut off by a withering look sent his way. Smiling weakly, knowing that Morgan wasn't a fan of receiving a hundred answers when only one was needed, said, "Nevermind the statistics. But, either way, it's just so…nerve racking. You can't tell me that when JJ read that profile, you didn't think of me. It _was_ me."

He was silent for a moment, focusing solely on the long stretch of road it would seem. He did think of Reid. He looked at him too, like everyone else. It was almost as if the report was a bad April fool's joke and someone thought it would be funny to make a profile of victims who perfectly matched him. But it wasn't. It was a real report. And the victims were just like Reid. But that didn't mean Reid had to be just like the victims.

"Look Reid," Morgan said, as he sent the man in question a look before turning his attention back to the road. "You're going to be fine. We're not going to let anything happen to you, alright? You're in good hands, Kid."

Reid smiled, chuckling somewhat at the nickname. From anyone else it would be indignant. "Yeah, you're right. But I can't help it. I mean me and the victims were-"

"Hey," Morgan cut him off, shooting him a serious look. "Don't think like that, man. We won't let that happen to you." The black Mazda slowed to a stop as it approached a traffic light and Morgan took this opportunity to give his friend a soft, comforting look. "You're good." The traffic light turned again, and Morgan began to move forward.

As Reid was opening his mouth to respond, he felt a sudden, harsh shove hit him in the side as his door crumpled into him. A speeding SUV crashed into Reid's side of the car, causing the car belonging to the two agents to collapse under its more significant weight. And Reid was jostled from his seat, thrown up against the roof of the car where his head made a sickening _THWACK _against it. He fell back to his seat, his head throbbing as his vision blurred and the sound of Morgan calling to him, seeing if he was alright, became white noise.

His right arm felt heavy, like it was tied down to a lead weights, and a tingling, stinging sensation swept through it until his entire arm and shoulder felt like they were being pricked with a million white hot needles. A large pressure sat on his side and he groaned at the feel of it. But the worst pain was in his head. So heavy, yet so light all at once. He vaguely noted the blood that fell into his vision, thick and tacky. His eyelids had difficulty opening and closing through the substance, which was just as well as his eyes burned when some of the blood met the corneas.

He felt a push come from the opposite direction- it was Morgan. He was…shaking him? Why? Or was he? He couldn't make sense of anything. His vision, if it wasn't blurred by blood, was hazy and unfocused, little tiny white dots swimming through it. And his hearing was gone- replaced by a high-pitched key. It dawned on him that perhaps he had suffered a concussion. If so, he had to stay awake. Had to. But how?

His eyelids were so heavy, and the blood kept stinging his eyes. Maybe if he closed them- just to keep the blood out…

"DON'T CLOSE YOUR EYES!"

He felt his body jump in surprise at the loudness of the voice. Whose voice was it? It wasn't deep enough to be his friend's voice. And why did it sound so loud? There was no need to yell, was there?

Mannerisms aside, he kept his eyes opened, only to have them sting and be useless to the wave of white dots. His mind needed to be alert…right? Concussion…stay awake…mind alert…

That made sense right?

He wasn't so sure.

He was just so tired.

He wanted to sleep.

He felt so heavy.

"REID! WHAT'S THE FIBONACCI SEQUENCE?" Now there was Morgan. Why was he yelling? Really, he was perfectly capable of hearing. And why did Morgan want to know the Fibonacci Sequence? It was completely irrelevant…

"I need to know," Morgan…whispered? Why was he so quiet now? He really needed to have a talk about maintaining a consistent vocal level…

What was he doing? What did he need? Oh right! Fibonacci…

And Reid began to count to himself, ticking off the sequence in his mind.

One.

One.

Two.

Three.

Five.

Eight.

What came next? He didn't know. He was too tired, he couldn't focus.

And so he ignored the voices, both known and unknown, telling him to keep his eyes open and he closed them. The world became black.

xXx

Feeling by feeling, pain by pain, the world came back to Reid. It was so gradual that it started out almost nonexistent. It started in his feet- his toes ached. Not from pain or from being wounded, but just from lack of use. Than sensation came back- toe by toe, bone by bone, ligament by ligament- until his head was fuzzy. He briefly considered the possibility of someone replacing his brain with cotton balls, but, as he became more and more conscious, dismissed that idea. What a stupid thought really. He'd be dead. Then a terrifying question came to him.

Was he dead?

The last he could remember was being in the car with Morgan before a horrible, shuddering pain filled his body. And now he was…he was where exactly?

'_Open your eyes. Examine your surroundings. If you're dead, it won't hurt. If you're alive, you're not dead,'_ he told himself, trying to will his eyelids to open. But it was no use.

Sighing in defeat, he just lay there, as pain came renewed to his body. It felt like years before he heard anything.

"Is he okay?" a tear-ridden voice said. That voice sounded awfully familiar. JJ?

"Yes, he'll be fine. A concussion was the worst of it but he should be fine," an unfamiliar, deep bellow of a voice said.

So he was right. Good thing he kept his mind alert. Wait…no, he closed his eyes. He remembered being too tired to care, or to even know the consequences of closing his eyes. But he was thankful him sleeping didn't affect the outcome.

"Can we see him?" a deep, monotone voice said. _'Hotch!'_ his mind practically shouted out triumphantly. At least he was becoming more aware.

The same unfamiliar voice answered, "Yes, but if he wakes, call one of the nurses in." A door opened, then closed. Bellow Voice was gone. Leaving only Hotch, JJ…

"I'm so sorry, Kid," a quiet voice called. Morgan was here than…

'_Wait! No, it's not your fault! We had the green light. Right?'_ Reid's voice tried to reach out to Morgan, but he was in a virtual comatose state. He couldn't so much as wiggle his pinky toe.

Or could he?

Slowly, and with much concentration, he focused on that little, forgotten appendage. He forced his tired brain to connect the bones and muscles necessary- he knew them, somewhere behind the cotton, he knew those specific bones and muscles- too get the signals down to his little toe. After four tries, he finally got it, wiggling the tingly toe triumphantly.

But the victory was short lived, as now he needed to focus on other appendages. And so he repeated the process, barely catching snippets of conversation tossed around him as he focused on wiggling each toe in liberation- each finger, both ankles, both wrists, his neck. And then he focused on opening his eyes.

With a great deal of effort, an amount so large he was surprised he didn't close them again for sleep- he opened his eyes.

He was blinded. The light was so bright he hissed- well, he thought he hissed. In reality it came out more as a groan. But that groan caught the attention of his teammates, who had just been discussing how they should leave, and Rossi was out the door to find a nurse.

But Reid was too focused on the color- or lack thereof- surrounding him. White lights, white ceilings, white walls, white linens, white curtains, white linoleum…

As if his body was ready to protest the overuse of white, he turned to his side and wretched violently, spewing up the contents of…his stomach? No, that was empty. This was bile.

Whimpering softly at the pain that rippled through him at the action of vomiting, he leaned back in bed, satisfied that now there was at least something other than white in the room.

"Reid?"

He looked over in the direction of the voice. It was Morgan. He was radiating relief and guilt all at the same time, and as much as Reid wanted to comfort him, he couldn't. He was too tired and heavy at the moment. So instead, he smiled weakly.

He watched as another wave of relief washed over his friend before he grabbed a tissue from a box beside his bed.

"You've got some bile on your lip," the man said as he wiped it away for him.

'_Well,'_ he thought to himself in humiliation, _'guess who owes Morgan a big favor now?'_

He was jolted from his thoughts by the poking and prodding of a nurse. Turning slowly so as to not disrupt his head, he watched as the nurse shoved a thermometer in his mouth before wrapping his arm in a sphygmomanometer and determining his blood pressure. Absentmindedly, he began twirling the thermometer around in his mouth with his tongue, still barely conscious of the world and the proper ways to behave in it. The nurse simply gave him a tired look, as if she understood his confusion induced actions but really didn't care for them. Either way, she wrote the results down on her clipboard and offered Reid some water, propping him up so he could drink it without getting it down his front.

After several large gulps and two refills later, the nurse spoke to him.

"Hello, Dr. Reid. I'm a nurse here, my name is Holly." She smiled sweetly here. "Are you feeling alright enough to speak to your doctor? He needs to ask you some questions."

He thought for a moment. Was he okay? Now that he had water he could speak properly and his head wasn't feeling so bad anymore. With a lazy roll of his shoulders, he decided he should just say yes. Worse come to worse, they just visit him again for the same reason.

"Yes, I'm fine."

Was that his voice? It sounded so raspy.

Holly smiled and excused herself, telling his team that they had five minutes left and then calling down the hall for a janitor to clean up Reid's vomit. He really was so charming, wasn't he?

"Hey, Spence. How are you feeling?" JJ asked, sitting at the edge of his bed and placing a strong, comforting hand on his knee.

Ignoring the flip-flop of his stomach that her contact created, he said, "Like I was in a train wreck."

Morgan chuckled. "Close. A car wreck." A moment of silence passed between the occupants of the room before Morgan added, "Look, man, I'm sorry. I didn't see the driver. I know that's no excuse but I'm really sorry."

Reid shook his head, reprimanding himself for the pain it created, and smiled. "It's not your fault. I don't blame you. It was that jerk in the SUV." He chuckled slightly, causing the others to smile.

Before anymore could be said, the nurse returned, followed by Reid's doctor. Holly shooed everyone away, letting them say goodbye for two more minutes before becoming more assertive in her suggestions for them to leave. When it was finally just Reid and the hospital staff, Holly smiled politely and then let herself out.

"Hello, I'm your attending doctor, Dr. Valentino," the man- Bellow Voice- said. "I know you've been through a bit, but I'm afraid we need you to fill out some paperwork. Legal stuff, as well as patient records. Would you like some help?"

Reid smiled and shook his head. _'Ow. Slowly, remember,'_ he thought as his head screamed in protest.

"No, thanks. I'll be fine."

Dr. Valentino smiled and handed him a clipboard and a pen. Reid was started before the man even left the room.

Full Name: Reid, Spencer

DOB: October 9, 1981

Physical Appearance Identification-

Hair Color: Brown

Eye Color: Hazel

Weight: 137 lbs

Height: 6'2''

Medical History

Any existing allergies: None

Any existing medical conditions: None

History of physical illnesses in family (not patient): None

History of mental illnesses in family (not patient):

He paused here, holding the pen erect above the sheet before biting his lip and scribbling:

History of mental illnesses in family (not patient): Mother, paranoid schizophrenia

xXx

**Author's Note:**** A thank you to everyone who reviewed, favorite and alerted this story! I greatly appreciate it and am glad you're enjoying this story. Here's a present for you all!**

**Chapter Three: Remaining So (Preview)**

"You're not the doctor from before," Reid said slowly, eyeing the man suspiciously. But he simply smiled warmly and placed a hand on his chest, as if hurt by his accusatory tone.

"Relax, Dr. Reid. I'm just here to discharge you," he explained handing Reid yet another clipboard and pen to sign with. He was really starting to hate clipboards. With a sigh, Reid wrote the necessary information as the doctor, whose name badge read 'Dr. Andrew Wright', took his vitals.

About a minute into this routine, Dr. Wright began to speak. "I was reading over your file the other day and, pardon me for being forward, but you did write that your mother was a paranoid schizophrenic, yes?" Reid looked at the man wearily, biting his lower lip as he simply nodded his answer. He really did hate talking about this. Why did it have to come up all the time? It really was getting old.

However, Dr. Wright seemed intent on speaking about it as he then asked, "Do you ever fear that perhaps you carry her genes for it?"


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:**** Criminal Minds and all its associated characters are property to CBS and no profit is being made from this story.**

**Author's Note**** Reid and JJ fluff ahead, because I think they're adorable together, haha. Also, many people requested hearing the story told from other team members. Also, to one reviewer, CMSP, I have a rule for myself where a chapter I post can be no shorter than six pages on Microsoft Word, so don't worry, the length will never get shorter, just longer. Thank all of you for the comments and I will most certainly try to get those views in here. If you have any other comments on how this can be improved, just send a review!**

**Also, I apologize, as one astute reviewer- MelanieMM- pointed out, Reid is actually six foot two. Sorry for the mistake, I intend to fix it as soon as possible. Thank you for the correction =D**

**Chapter Three: Remaining So**

'_We're all born mad. Some of us remain so.' -Samuel Beckett_

Reid had never hated his teammates as much as he did now.

Really, just because the doctor said not to bring any case files or even books for him doesn't mean they should listen. Concussion be damned! He was bored and he wasn't capable of watching television all day or twiddling his thumbs. He needed something to stimulate his brain! Needed something to keep it going, keep the synapses fresh.

And they just didn't understand it. So what if he got a headache from focusing on the print on a page or for trying to solve problems too in depth- he was a BAU special agent! That was all he knew.

Oh yeah, next time any of them need help, he's not going to be the one giving it to them!

'_Well, except maybe JJ,'_ he thought to himself before he was even aware he felt that way. He blushed. He needed to stop acting like a teenage boy around her. But those butterflies in his stomach would just keep fluttering at the thought of the pretty blonde, and he felt so incompetent and so young.

'_Maybe because you are?'_

By god.

Even his thoughts were turning against him.

xXx

JJ was an angel, Reid decided.

A beautiful angel who understood what Reid was going through and decided to read to him. Yes, when Hotch and Rossi and Emily and Morgan had shaken their heads, telling him that they were on doctor's orders to not bring him books and that he should watch some television, JJ stepped forward and suggested that she read to him.

It took longer and his stomach was filled with butterflies performing trapeze acts and acrobatic feats at her close proximity, but it was amazing.

She sat as close to the bed as possible, and Reid was able to smell her shampoo- it smelt like mint. It was so fresh and energizing he couldn't help but inhale the scent deeply. She didn't seem to notice though, as she kept reading her book to him. It wasn't a book he would've selected on his own- it was a simplistic, fictional drama- but it didn't matter. It was something to do and, more importantly, it got JJ and him alone and close together.

He was lying on his back, his body squared to be parallel with the ceiling, but his head was turned towards her. His eyes alternated between open and close, unsure of whether he wanted to watch her or relax to the words she was saying.

He really could be so juvenile sometimes.

Deciding sleep was too important, he closed his eyes and began to sink into the pillows and mattress. It was late. He wondered why they hadn't asked JJ to leave. Maybe they forgot. Or maybe they were so happy that he stopped asking for something to read that they were willing to bend the rules in order to have him shut up. Either way, he nuzzled his head into his pillow and sighed contentedly, listening to her read.

As her voice grew more and more distant and his head was clouded over with sleep, he heard her yawn loudly and then say, "Spence?" She spoke softly, so as to not disturb him should he have fallen asleep. He wanted to answer her, wanted to let her know that he was still awake, but he couldn't. He was so tired and it took more effort than he would care for in order to open his mouth and have it form the words he needed. So he just remained quiet, half asleep.

"Spence?" she said again.

And again, he didn't answer.

He was too tired. And he was sure the nurse had given him some medication to "calm" him. That didn't help matters. He heard JJ stood, and he tried to urge himself to wake up just long enough to say good night to her, but before he could even open his lazy eyes, his bed dipped with added weight. And then a body slid in next to him, yawning softly as she curled into herself, her head falling to rest in the space between his arm and chest, partially lying on both body parts.

His heart stopped.

Was JJ really lying down with him? Risking his secret, that he was really awake and not asleep, he cracked an eye open and saw a mass of blonde hair strewn over his chest. It was real. She was really lying down with him!

He suppressed the urge to shout in happiness. Instead, he gave a fake yawn and shifted his position to something that was more comfortable- which resulted in him wrapping his arms around her as much as the wires would allow, and burying his face in her hair. For a second, he feared she would realize that he was awake and leap out of the bed, repulsed, but she didn't. Instead she shifted closer to him.

And Reid never felt happier.

xXx

The man never felt happier.

When all hope seemed to fade, when he was sure his studies were over and he would have to put them on hold for lord knew how long, a new record showed up in his computer file- one that described the person he needed exactly.

At least, it appeared that way, he would need to see the young man first, as well as perform a physical on him. After all, he was brought to the hospital in an ambulance after a pretty bad traffic accident, according to his file. But a physical was simple. And from the report, he had no real lasting injuries- nothing broken, no brain damage of any sort- just a nasty concussion that was, according to the doctor's signature at the bottom, healing quickly and nicely. His concern rested more with the personality of this young man than his physique or physical health.

Based on his height and weight, he seemed pretty close to the bill. And his hair and eye color were right on the mark. He was healthy, concussions heal, and so that was perfect too.

But he needed to have the right personality.

Clapping his hands together in excitement, he decided that a visit to this patient would be a good idea. He could gauge his personality and perform his own physical on him. Simple as that.

He giggled. He was so close! If this man passed the final exam he would give him, he was perfect! His studies would be back on track and this time, with new hope of succeeding. As this patient already had the seeds he needed planted. He already had mental health problems in his family, and even better, in his immediate family.

The grandfather clock chimed loudly, indicating the end of his shift. He was working later than usually, in the hopes that a new patient record would be added. And his hopes were not unfounded.

Rising from his seat, he hit the print button on his computer, making the slim printer to the side come to life in a cacophony of whirring and whizzing. As the file printed, he began to gather his things, collecting them in a plain black satchel and then hoisting it over his shoulder. When the sounds of the device ceased, he snatched up the paper, sighing contently at the prospect of his research having new life.

After skimming it one more time, memorizing every bit of information he could, he placed it neatly in his bag and left his office, locking it behind him.

As he walked through the hospital towards the exit, where he would hop in his car and leave, he noticed the numbers on the door. Four hundred and fifty-three, four hundred and fifty-two…

_His _patient was in room four hundred and forty-nine. He was close.

He slowed his steps, deciding he would be remiss if he didn't pay a quick visit to this young man. But he would need a reason- he wasn't assigned to him, so him simply strolling into the room would not be written off as unusual. And then he saw it. His excuse.

Kira, a young nurse, was making her rounds through the floor, huffing and puffing unhappily as she dragged the vital machine behind her. _Perfect_.

"Kira," he said, smiling warmly at the twenty-something nurse.

She looked at him, offering her own tired smile. "Hello. Just making rounds, Doctor," she said and was about to go on her way when he stopped her.

"Why don't we split up the floor? I'll get rooms four hundred to four hundred and fifty, and you get the rest." She beamed, laughing happily.

"Thank you so much! That's so wonderful! Thank you," she said over and over again, prancing to the nurse's station to grab a new vital machine for herself. The doctor simply smiled, shaking his head.

"Think nothing of it, my dear. It's the least I can do," he said, pulling the machine with him and heading to room four hundred and fifty. One room away…

After ten minutes of wrestling with the sleeping man to take his vital, he left and head for his real destination. Four hundred and forty nine…

He was there. But with someone else?

He quirked his head in confusion. There was a young, blonde woman, lying beside him as they both slept peacefully. How long had she been here for? Visitors weren't allowed to stay this late. And they most certainly weren't allowed to sleep in the same bed as the patients!

Sighing in frustration, he looked away from the girl and turned to the patient, snuggled in next to the girl. A gasp escaped his lips. He was perfect. His hair, light brown with golden highlights fell into his structured face. His complexion was smooth and alabaster, matching the whiteness of the sterile, hospital environment. He was absolutely gorgeous. Perfect.

Chuckling, he began taking his vitals, gently performing some of his own tests- feeling his lymph nodes, checking his heartbeat, feeling his head softly, etc. So good, so far. He left the room, smiling excitedly.

"Kira, there's still a visitor with the patient in room four hundred and forty-nine. I would wake her and send her on her way," he said, turning to head to the next room.

"Oh, that's Special Agent Jareau," Kira responded. The man stopped in his tracks, turning around slowly. Special Agent? Meaning, working for the FBI? He wasn't sure if this was a good or bad development. Was the patient a member of the FBI? Would that be a help or hindrance to his cause? Would they even understand his studies? Even though he was sure of the necessity of his procedures, he could understand why others would not. This really was a setback…

"Is the patient a Special Agent, too, Kira?" he queried. She wrinkled her nose slightly.

"Apparently. He seems too young, right? I didn't believe them when they told me, but he's like some genius or something. They said he was a prodigy, and so the FBI made an exception for him," she shrugged, as if she was still doubtful of the whole situation.

This only piqued the doctor's interest. A genius? Perhaps it was a risk worth taking…

Thanking Kira for her help and answers, he left to continue the rounds he really had no more interest in now.

xXx

Morgan sat in the passenger seat of the car as Hotch drove them to the hospital, followed by a similar rental car which contained Rossi, Emily and JJ. They were on their way to pick up Reid, who was to be discharged today and he was feeling his guilt returning once more.

He really didn't see the driver.

He really did have the right away.

He really was careful.

But still, Reid had been in the hospital for three days- one of which was spent in an unconscious state- suffering from a pretty bad, though healing, concussion and various other injuries. Seventy-two stitches in his arm from the window and car door shattering against him. A sprained wrist from being thrown around the car and bruised ribs, one rib broken. He just felt so guilty. If he just went slower, just waited one more second, Reid would've been alright. Even if he had still gotten into a car accident, he wished that he would've been the one to receive the most damage. But no, he walked away with five stitches in his forehead and two sprained fingers.

There was nothing fair about that. He had been the one driving; he should've been the one knocked unconscious, lying in a hospital bed. Not the other way around.

He rubbed his face, sighing.

"He's going to be okay, Morgan. We're going to pick him up, bring him to the police station and continue working on this case. Nothing we'll get him back to perfect health than using that brain of his," Hotch said, trying to comfort his friend. Though it did little to alleviate his guilt, the normally cold, stoic man trying to reach out to him was touching and enough to make him smile.

"Yeah, Boy Wonder will be happy to start working. The nursing staff probably had a mental breakdown after dealing with a bored Reid," he added, laughing. Hotch smiled in agreement.

xXx

Reid was practically bouncing off the walls the morning of his discharge. Now that they had finally allowed him to walk without having a destination in mind, his legs were jittery with the action. Walking! What a great thing to do! How come he didn't walk more? It was wonderful! He didn't ever want to sit down again.

But his body was not pleased with this new revelation.

His sides were still sore as his ribs weren't healed yet, and his wrist throbbed with every jerky hand movement, but he didn't care. Mind over matter- he had proven that ever since he was a twelve a year old in college. It's about thought, not body mass.

He had just started to slowly stretch his hands above his head, testing their boundaries, when a doctor walked in, carrying a vital station and the discharge papers. Reid furrowed his brow. He didn't recognize this doctor.

He was tall and muscular, with a broad shoulder and chest. His extremities were thick and long and he had to have stood well over six feet. Despite how intimidating his body was, his face was quite warm and friendly. He had deep brown eyes, surrounded with smile lines and brown hair, flecked with gray as he offered a full smile.

Despite how kindly this new doctor seemed, Reid couldn't help but wonder why he was here.

"You're not the doctor from before," Reid said slowly, eyeing the man suspiciously. But he simply smiled warmly and placed a hand on his chest, as if hurt by his accusatory tone.

"Relax, Dr. Reid. I'm just here to discharge you," he explained handing Reid yet another clipboard and pen to sign with. He was really starting to hate clipboards. With a sigh, Reid wrote the necessary information as the doctor, whose name badge read 'Dr. Andrew Wright', took his vitals.

About a minute into this routine, Dr. Wright began to speak. "I was reading over your file the other day and, pardon me for being forward, but you did write that your mother was a paranoid schizophrenic, yes?" Reid looked at the man wearily, biting his lower lip as he simply nodded his answer. He really did hate talking about this. Why did it have to come up all the time? It really was getting old.

However, Dr. Wright seemed intent on speaking about it as he then asked, "Do you ever fear that perhaps you carry her genes for it?"

Reid's head shot up then, his hazel eyes set hard and steely as he glared at the man. He had no right to ever insinuate such a thing. He clenched his jaw, then unclenched it, then clenched it again. Dr. Wright simply looked at him expectantly.

After a long pause, Reid handed him the clipboard and stood, preparing to leave as he said, "Every day of my life."

xXx

**Author's Note:**** Another chapter out! Thanks again to everyone who reviewed, or added this story to their alerts or favorites. It means a lot! Send a review with your thoughts or suggestions! Here's another present!**

**Chapter Four: More or Less (Preview)**

"The UnSub has medical theories and practices that put his Hippocratic Oath at jeopardy. He was probably kicked out of medical school once it was revealed just how unhealthy his ideas were, even though he still believes he was justified. He was probably close to receiving his doctorate, he seems too good at what he's doing to have been kicked out earlier than that," he explained.

Rossi grabbed his cell phone and flipped it open, looking at the team before saying, "I'll have Garcia find locals who started medical school but never finish." As he went to hit Garcia's speed dial, Reid stopped him.

"Also, tell her to cross-reference that list with morticians and artisans in the area. The UnSub most likely does a job that incorporates either his medical training or his hands. Even though he was kicked out of school before becoming a qualified doctor, he's probably tried to hold onto his dreams, distorted as they are, in his field," Reid explained.

Rossi then called Garcia to give her the profile.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:**** Criminal Minds and all its associated characters are property to CBS and no profit is being made from this story.**

**Author's Note:**** This chapter focuses a little more on the actual case, so it's a little slow on the action. But next chapter more than makes up for that, I promise. **

**Also, IMPORTANT, is there anyone interested in beta-ing this story? As I look back I find I've made mistakes that I didn't catch, despite reading the chapter several. And it's only after I've post them that I notice a mistake's been made. So if you're interested just send a PM. Thanks!**

**Chapter Four: More or Less**

_'The real difference between men is not sanity and insanity, but more or less insanity.' -Austin O'Malley_

JJ smoothed out the wrinkles in her blouse nervously as she sat in the waiting room with her team as Reid finished up with his discharge forms. She had been anxious all morning about facing him again after having fallen asleep beside him in his bed. A nurse had retrieved her sometime in the early morning and so she left, not even waking him to say goodnight. Or apologize for sleeping beside him without his knowledge.

Perhaps he wouldn't remember. He had been asleep, right? Still, her stomach was jumping all around, setting her on edge.

She couldn't help it though. She was so tired and she didn't think it was a good idea for her to drive. Her eyes were falling with sleep and when they were open, everything was blurry and obscured by her fuzzy mind, unable to concentrate. It was a wonder she was even able to read! Her book was just so interesting, she had to keep going. But then when she rested it on her lap to look at Reid, to see if he was sleeping, it suddenly dawned on her just how exhausted she was! And she knew she couldn't stay awake a second longer...

She coughed uncomfortably as she continued to fiddle with the hem of her shirt.

Hopefully, Reid was fast asleep and would have no memory of it.

"So," she started, trying to forget about her embarrassment, "What are we doing once we pick Reid up?"

"We're going to head back to the station and go over the case, create a profile for the UnSub. Start there," Rossi said, rubbing his face tiredly as he held a magazine held open on his lap. She nodded before looking down at her hands. With Reid in the hospital, they hadn't quite been able to focus on their case as they would've liked to. The first day, the day of the accident, they hadn't done anything once they got the call from Morgan. The second day they had interviewed several relatives of three victims. The third day they had Garcia look for any crimes in the past that might have resembled the ones they weren't currently investigating and spoke to some relatives of the other two victims. And so now they all collected themselves in a waiting center of the hospital.

"Special Agent Jareau?" a voice called.

Startled from her thoughts, JJ turned to the voice and smiled at a doctor with a strong, tall body and a kind face. He looked to be in his late forties, with wrinkles forming deep creases around his mouth and eyes and streaks of gray battling the dark brown of his hair. He wore a long white doctor's coat, with a badge on it that read Dr. Andrew Wright.

"Yes?" she answered.

"Hi, I'm Dr. Wright, Spencer's discharge doctor. You were in his room last night, right?" he asked, smiling playfully at her. Heat rushed to her cheeks, forming a scarlet blush over her normally clear skin. Well, that was blunt and to the point.

She stammered slightly before responding, "I ugh...yes I was." Her voice was small as she avoided eye contact, but Dr. Wright simply chuckled, unfazed.

"I heard he was a Special Agent as well. He seems far too young, especially for the BAU. How is it that he got in?" the man queried.

JJ, thankful that he turned the conversation away from her, said, "Yes well, he's really smart. He has an eidetic memory, stuff like that. He also has several doctorates." At the man's incredulous look, she added, "He went to college at twelve. He's really smart." She laughed at his expression now, his eyes wide and his mouth dropped open. It really was quite impressive, and she was sure reaction wasn't quite so different when she first learned of him.

"That's...truly amazing," he said quietly, more to himself than to her.

She smiled. "Yeah it is."

After a second, Dr. Wright then asked, "How did he respond to this? At such a young age he must've been ostracized by his classmates."

JJ shifted in her seat, uncomfortable with sharing such private information with this man. But, he was a doctor, Reid's doctor to be precise. Besides, it wasn't as if she would explain the more traumatic things that occurred to him because of his classmates bullying him. Slowly, carefully choosing her words, she said, "Well, he didn't really get along with them from what he tells me. He's kind of...awkward around people. You know, he's an-"

"Observer?" he questioned, raising his eyebrow.

Smiling, she nodded. "Yeah, exactly. But he's really sweet, once you get him talking."

Dr. Wright smiled, nodding. "Yes, I spoke to him briefly. He'll be out in a moment by the way. He's simply being given some last minute instructions from a nurse regarding medicine to use and how to work around his injuries safely."

"Thank you," she said as he turned to leave.

The man turned around to face her and added, "My pleasure," before heading back into the center of the hospital.

xXx

Reid quickly signed the end of the discharge form, celebrating in his mind that he was finally leaving. Laying the pen down, he nodded his thanks and goodbyes to the nurse before practically rushing out of the unit of the hospital. His foot tapped annoyingly as he stood in the elevator, regretting his decision to not take the stairs. Even though he rediscovered a new love of walking, he had thought that flour flights of stairs would not do his damaged body good. However, he was growing impatient and unhappy with the elevator as it quickly became crowded with more and more people.

When it finally let out at ground level, he headed to the direction of the waiting room he knew his team would reside, ignoring the way his stomach wrenched violently with every step he took. When he woke up that morning, JJ hadn't been there. When he asked a nurse who came into his room to bring him his breakfast, she explained that she had been woken up by one of the night nurse's and asked to leave. Though he was upset that she had gone- and more importantly, without saying goodnight- he was happy that he at least didn't have to deal with the awkward morning they would've had.

"_Oh, Spence, I'm sorry but I was so tired. I hope you don't mind."_

"_I was awake the entire time!"_

Yeah, that seemed like an accurate idea of what would've happened. With nothing else to say, and with the guilt of having pretended to be asleep in order to have JJ lie with him, he would have revealed his secret in a loud outburst that would surely have sent her running. Oh yes, he was smooth that way.

But now he had to face her. Perhaps he would just pretend it didn't happen? Yeah, that seemed like a good idea. After all, she did think he was asleep. He would just act like he was.

He entered the waiting room and was immediately surrounded by his friends and teammates. He smiled widely at their concerned and loving expressions. Through his entire, young life, he never thought he would ever have the love of anyone other than his mother. And yet, here was a group of people who cared for him and worried about him and truly loved him. It was better than he ever could have imagined. Even JJ was acting normal around him, as if she was unaware of just where and with whom she spent her night with.

"How are you feeling, Kid?" Morgan asked, clamping his hand softly on Reid's shoulder.

"I'm fine, thanks," he answered with a smile.

"Garcia sends her love to you, Reid," Rossi said, chuckling slightly.

"Actually," Emily started, a wide smile on her face, "she sends her 'undying, everlasting love to the fountain of unnecessary knowledge that holds this team together'." Reid blushed at the compliment that Garcia had given him, but everyone else simply laughed about her extravagant speech.

"Come on, let's get you back to the station and work that brain of yours for all it's worth," Morgan chuckled and Reid gratefully followed them out the door, leaving the hospital behind.

Xxx

"Okay, so what do we got?" Hotch asked, placing his coat neatly over one of the large, swivel chairs sitting around the table as the others sat down.

"Let's bring Reid up to date, first," Rossi suggested as he looked over at Emily and Morgan expectantly. "Why don't you tell us what Angelo King's family said in the interview."

Emily nodded as she grabbed the folding, containing the specific account of Angelo King, murder victim number three. "We spoke with his mother and father. They told us that Angelo was a college student, spending his summer vacation with his family. He was a chemistry major, working on getting his masters before he was kidnapped by the UnSub. He was last seen alive on July twenty-eighth. He told his mom he was going down to Esopus Creek to go fishing and brought his dog, Gizmo with him. That night, Gizmo returned and Angelo didn't. His body was found on the outskirts of Phoenicia in February of the next year."

"His parents said that there was no one who seemed to have taken an unhealthy interest in their son, and even though he didn't have many friends, he didn't have many enemies either," Morgan said with a shrug. Reid nodded as they continued to give the background to all the victims, each with just as little to go on as the next.

It seemed nearly hopeless. All the victims were kidnapped when they were in an extremely secluded area, with no witness to provide even an account of them arriving at the destination they had described. None had any enemies- they were all too laid back and introverted for that to happen. They seemed so...normal. Nothing special, nothing remarkable. They sunk into the background, forgotten by many.

He sighed in thought as the door opened, with Officer Varney walking through.

"Dr. Reid, glad to see you're out of the hospital and doing well," he said, taking a seat beside JJ and Rossi.

He nodded, too focused on the case to really give any more formalities. His mind worked in overtime as he struggled to connect each victim with the UnSub, drawing imaginary lines of thought from here to there as he attempted to fill in the missing pieces. A dull throb began to form at the top of his head, and he knew his concussion was not as fully healed as one would hope. But really, a headache was the least of his concerns at the moment.

"There's nothing," he said finally, admitting defeat. At the questioning looks from his team, he added, "There's nothing to bring the victim and the UnSub together. No one of particular interest, no potential witness."

"If we don't know enough about the victims," Hotch began, "then let's start with the UnSub."

Emily was the first to speak. "He thinks whatever he's doing is righteous. He has an 'ends justifies the means' way of thinking. Whatever he's trying to do, he believes his medical exploration is worth it. It's not for sadistic purposes, but necessary purposes that he harms his victims."

"That would eliminate most pathologies," Morgan reasoned. "If it's not power or sexually release he's trying to get, than it's possible he has a disorder that would cause him to view actions, good deeds and bad deeds, differently. He has a level of respect for his victims, but not at the same time. The fact that he treats them indicates his respect, while leaving them naked when he dumps the bodies gives evidence to the opposite."

"He's conflicted," Rossi noted, biting his lip in thought.

Suddenly, JJ jumped and turned towards Varney, a look of instant realization overcoming her features. "In the report we received, it mentioned he left his notes with the bodies, but they were confusing and couldn't be decoded. Where are they?" she asked.

"In forensics. We had them shipped out to see if any evidence could be found," he answered.

"Can you get them back?"

He nodded. "I'll call the lab and see if they can expedite it back to us." He stood from his seat and left the room, leaving the team to go back to their profile.

"It's possible he has some sort of cognitive or personality disorder. Clearly, he is submitting himself to an extreme cognitive dissonance as it is, balancing between his Hippocratic Oath and what he's doing to his victims," Reid suggested.

"Whatever he has, it's making him extremely unstable. At least when he's working on his victims. It's possible he's able to alternate between two separate ideas and thoughts, much like someone with Dissociative Identity," Hotch added.

"It's more likely, actually," Morgan said. "Clearly, he's aware that others might see his ideas and his procedure as unethical, otherwise he wouldn't be so discreet about it, so he understands the social norms and how to adjust his behavior accordingly. He's probably someone you would never expect. Someone who's of good moral character and is kind and polite."

"He definitely has to have medical training in order to do what he's doing. It's so precise and exact," Emily, receiving a nod of agreement from her colleagues.

"Should we check the hospitals? Question the doctors? The victims have all been dumped within twenty feet of each other and so it limits it to local practitioners," JJ suggested, but Reid shook his head.

"The UnSub has medical theories and practices that put his Hippocratic Oath at jeopardy. He was most likely kicked out of medical school once it was revealed just how unhealthy his ideas were, even though he still believes he was justified. He was probably close to receiving his doctorate, he seems too good at what he's doing to have been kicked out earlier than that," he explained.

Rossi grabbed his cell phone and flipped it open, looking at the team before saying, "I'll have Garcia find locals who started medical school but never finish." As he went to hit Garcia's speed dial, Reid stopped him.

"Also, tell her to cross-reference that list with morticians and artisans in the area. The UnSub most likely does a job that incorporates either his medical training or his hands. Even though he was kicked out of school before becoming a qualified doctor, he's probably tried to hold onto his dreams, distorted as they are, in his field," Reid explained.

Rossi then called Garcia to give her the profile.

xXx

"You have reached the wonderful and glorious embodiment of knowledge, how can I help you?" Garcia said as she smiled to herself, knowing that Rossi was doing the same.

"We have a profile for you," he said, his voice coming into her ear through the ear piece she was wearing.

"Lay it on me, Baby," she said as spun over to her computer set up, preparing to search for whatever they requested. The second Rossi gave her the list to search for, she was typing away, finding the information in less than a minute.

"I've got a list for you. There's a total of twelve people who match that description and live in the area. A surprisingly large amount considering the low population," she said, adding the last part as a side note more made for herself than Rossi. Shaking her head, she said, "I'll email the names, addresses and information regarding their expulsion to you right...now." She paused in between the two words as she sent the file to him, ever the one for accuracy in timing.

"Thanks, Garcia," he said, preparing to hang up but was stopped by her question.

"How's Reid? He was released today right?" she asked, leaning back in her chair as she clicked a pen idly in her right hand.

"Yeah, he seems to be doing well," Rossi said.

She hesitated for a moment before asking, "Even though he matches the victims so closely?"

There was a pause.

"I don't know what you mean," he said, before he hung up and Garcia's ear was assaulted with a loud and dismissing _beep_.

Part of her wanted to call Rossi and yell at him for his lack of manners, but the other part of her was still and overpoweringly worried about the young BAU member. When she first read the victim profiles, she felt her heart sink and her jaw drop. It was as if she had sent one of her brothers away to be tortured and murdered by an insane serial killer! And she could tell from Rossi's behavior on the phone that she wasn't the only one who felt that way. She was just the only one who voiced it, apparently.

But still, Reid was in capable hands. If the others were aware of how close he was to the UnSub's preferences, than they would guard him with their lives, even without discussing it. There was no way they would let Reid come into harm.

And with that thought, she submitted to her impulse and sent Rossi a very angry, very chiding text message.

_'Serves him right,'_ she thought, clicking her cell phone shut as she returned to her work at hand.

xXx

**Author's Note:**** So what do you think? Next chapter is the start of it all, yay! Send a review my way with your thoughts and opinions. Now, present!**

**Chapter Five: So Afraid of That (Preview)**

_'Loose association,'_ he thought to himself, adding it to a mental checklist he was creating in his head. He shifted slightly on the rock he sat on, pushing his foot even deeper into the chilled water as he ran through the list once more. _'Cognitive dissonance, aware of how others perceive him, yet not aware of the true unethical actions he partakes in, conflicted ideas...black and white thinking? Would that apply in this situation?'_ he was sidetracked by his list as he began to wonder about just how bizarre this case was. It was more like there were several UnSubs, each with their own pathology instead of one. He never heard of a psychiatric case like this, and wondered if it were possible if the UnSub had several mild disorders working in comorbidity.

His thoughts were interrupted as a family voice broke through his mental barrier.

"Dr. Reid, how good it is to see you up and about," Dr. Wright said as he walked down the sloping rocks to join him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer:**** Criminal Minds and all its associated characters are property to CBS and no profit is being made from this story.**

**Author's Note:**** The poem below was one that I had found online and I can't remember the writer. So I apologize at not being able to give credit where it's due. If anyone knows who wrote this, please inform me right away so that I can give this wonderful poet he's credit. Enjoy.**

**Chapter Five: So Afraid of That**

'_My fear of going mad, drives me mad, and I'm so afraid of that.' _

"How are you feeling?" JJ asked, a small brush creeping up her cheek as she sat beside Reid. She hadn't quite forgotten that one night and, even though Reid never said anything, she couldn't help but feel nervous around him.

He shrugged slightly, keeping his attention focused on the information regarding the individual victims. "Alright, I guess. My side still hurts and so do my arms where there are stitches. But okay," he said.

"That's good," she said with a smile. She took a deep, calming breath. _'Go ahead! Just say it!'_ her mind urged as she worried her lower lip. "You know," she began, her hands shaking. "I was really worried about you when Morgan called us. I thought for sure I-"

"I've got the notes!" an excited and oblivious Varney said, walking through the door while he waved the thick envelope high above his head. JJ, half thankful for his interruption and half irritated for the same reason, smiled at him and then stood.

She walked over to the door, saying softly, "I just remembered something Hotch asked me to do. See you guys later."

Reid barely had a time to respond before the door slammed shut, a head of blonde hair going with it. Varney, clearly unperturbed by her quick dismissal of them, said, "You're supervisor requested that you be the one to look over the notes. Said that if anyone could figure it out, it would be you." He shrugged, as if he himself couldn't see anything particularly special about the young man before him.

"Oh, um, alright," Reid said as he reached out to grab the envelope, startled by its shockingly heavy weight. Eyes wide, he asked, "How many pages did he write?"

"One hundred and ninety-seven pages," he answered sheepishly.

"Oh, that's not so bad. How many words do you figure that is a page? Probably around five hundred, or seven hundred if he crammed it in. I should only need," he paused as his eyes shot to the top of his head, his hand raising as he began counting off with his fingers. In his moment of calculation, Morgan entered, but before he could say hello or any sort of greeting, Reid exclaimed, "At most…three minutes to read it all, give or take of course for any variables. That'll give me…twelve hours to crack the code before I go to sleep."

Varney's mouth had fallen open, and was currently alternating between open and close. Only three minutes to read all of it? How was that even possible? "He…he's not being serious, is he?" he said wide eyed to Morgan as if Reid was a pathological liar and Morgan would be the only one to tell him the truth.

However, the FBI agent in question just chuckled at his bewildered expression. "Eidetic memory, IQ of one hundred and eighty-seven and can read twenty thousand words a minute. He's our resident genius. You get used to it after awhile." Varney nodded once, doubtful and unsure of his claims.

"Well, if you guys are done discussing me, I'm going to go read these and work on decoding it. Is there a library or someplace I can go for a few hours where it's quiet?" he asked, turning to Varney as he slid his messenger bag over his shoulder and put the envelope inside.

"There was a fire at the local library," he responded, shrugging. "But, there's this place my kids call the Flats. It's right at the start of Chichester from Phoenicia. If you head on the main road there will be a bend in the guard rail. Climb over that and you're in one of the nicest parts of the Esopus Creek. My wife likes to go there to read, thought you might enjoy it too. The rocks are flat too, so they can be used like tables."

Reid smiled. He had been looking for an excuse to enjoy the scenery. "Alright, thanks. I'll look into that," he said before starting to leave, but Morgan stopped him.

"Do you want me to come with you? I could help."

But Reid shook his head. "No, I'll think better if I'm by myself. Besides, you and everyone else have been fussing over me so much after I got out of the hospital, it will be a relief." He laughed, just to show he wasn't trying to be mean.

Morgan hesitated before asking, "But Reid...the UnSub...and you're...well...you know."

"Ugh, no offense but I ugh...I think that I'm just being ugh...paranoid..." He whispered the last word as if it were venomous, and Morgan could only nod in understanding. He then added, "Besides, you and everyone else can get this job done without being afraid of everything. I need to be able to do the same."

Morgan shook his head. "But none of us ever matched the victomology."

Reid sighed as he rubbed his face. "Listen, I just...I need to do this. For myself. Besides, if this place is right as you enter Chichester and on the main road, then there will be houses right across from it."

A long paused followed before it was finally broken by a defeated Morgan.

"If you're sure," Morgan said, shrugging his shoulder.

As Reid left, he called over his shoulder, "I'm positive."

xXx

He was afraid.

No, Spencer Reid was _terrified_.

While he denied Morgan's request to come with him, a part of him was screaming at him to do otherwise. He wanted the man to come, desperately did, but he knew he couldn't- shouldn't. His fear wasn't about the UnSub or how close he was to his other victims, not anymore. Now, it was the emotion that burned through his veins, boiling his blood and causing a slick, cold sweat to form along his forehead. The emotion he had feared for the longest time- Paranoia.

It was in the ride back from the hospital that he realized how utterly ridiculous he was being. How…_insane_ he was being. Even the word caused a shudder to shake every single bone in his spinal column, quivering up the long stretch of nerves and sending signals throughout his body to do the same. He was so distracted by the victim profile that he hadn't even realized the delusional thinking it was causing- the delusional thinking that he had convinced himself was appropriate.

Footsteps coming towards him- it was the UnSub.

The door creaking open- it was the UnSub.

Feeling eyes on him- it was the UnSub.

When he realized just how paranoid he was, he nearly hit a breaking point. His fear of going insane was crippling him now, making him insane in the process. He couldn't complete this case if he was jumping at every sound and every shadow to emerge. He needed to keep his head- and more importantly, he needed to validate to himself that he wasn't being over reactive.

So he said no to Morgan.

He had to.

'_Time to grow up, Spence,'_ he thought, almost bitterly as he slid into his car and began to drive to where Varney had described, the Doctor's notes at his side.

xXx

"Morgan, where's Reid?" Hotch asked as he entered the board room, never removing his eyes from a printed list Garcia had sent him. He sat in his chair, still not looking up, as Morgan grunted in response to the lack of proper greeting.

'_Really, is a 'hello, how are you?' too much to ask for?'_ he thought, not unkindly, more so teasingly as he answered. "He left to some place Varney told him about, to read the notes. Some place in the Esopus Creek."

Hotch looked up, almost with startling speed and his dark, brown eyes, cold and unsettling, bored into Morgan's. "The Esopus Creek?" he asked slowly, thinking he had heard him wrong.

"Yeah," Morgan responded, not quite grasping the concept until bits and pieces came back to him, slowly at first until it became a tumultuous jumble of unclear thoughts and words.

_Two were Fishing._

_Two were Swimming._

_One was studying…_

_All five were kidnapped at the Esopus Creek._

_All five were alone._

_All five were just like Reid._

His heart pumped wildly in his chest as his expression became animalistic- eyes wild and frightened and his mouth wide in an expression of sheer terror. Adrenaline was rushed into his body, dissolving into his blood, his muscles, his bones, his skin…everywhere. It seemed the hormone permeated the very air he breathed, suffocating him, choking him. He needed to breathe, just focus on breathing. But he couldn't.

Reid was in danger.

And it was his fault.

He forgot that important piece of information and had allowed Reid to go on his own- without even so much as a debate! He had let him get away…

The world spun around him and nausea swept in, a result of the soaring levels of adrenaline he was secreting, but he pushed it away. It didn't matter. He didn't matter. Right now, only Reid mattered.

"Where did Varney tell him to go?" Hotch asked, his voice quiet and seemingly collected, but to a trained eye he was having an equally detrimental breakdown as his partner.

His eyes were dilated.

His chest moved shallower and quicker with his breaths.

His lower lip quivered only slightly.

And his left thumb began to twist his wedding ring around- he was petrified.

Morgan searched back for that moment in time, only two hours ago, when Reid had left and what Varney had said. The library was burnt down. The creek…From Phoenicia…the Flats…His mind worked as fast and as hard as possible to remember the name of the town. Leaving Phoenicia, just as you enter…where?

"I…the town…I forget," he said. Was that him? His voice sounded so quiet and meek.

"You need to remember, Morgan," Hotch said, low and dangerous.

He knew that- he knew he needed to remember. But that didn't mean he could just will it to happen. He couldn't help the bitter, guilty voice that entered his mind, telling him that Reid would remember. Reid would've remembered and then give the entire history of the town until someone stopped him.

And then Hotch started listing nearby towns.

Olive? No.

Woodstock? No.

Chichester? YES!

He practically jumped as his memory was jogged.

"In Chichester, just as you leave Phoenicia. A bend in the guardrail…" he trailed off, just as Hotchner ran from the room.

Without skipping a beat, he followed.

xXx

_Pt. Dss. fm ses. / work._

_Rs. to atpt. Eng. fight. Prs in ts?_

_Elc. Shk. Cls temper. Gd/bd?_

_Par. Sch. Symps? Jt temp rs? Prs gd._

_Rpd pt. Bcm. More /rs. No prs._

Reid sat on a flat, gray rock, water rushing passed his bare feet as they sat in the creek, wiggling his toes at the slimy clay coating the stones. Ignoring the feeling, he ran a hand through his hair and looked at the Doctor's scribbled notes.

_Pt. Dss. fm ses. / work._

_Rs. to atpt. Eng. fight. Prs in ts?_

_Elc. Shk. Cls temper. Gd/bd?_

_Par. Sch. Symps? Jt temp rs? Prs gd._

_Rpd pt. Bcm. More /rs. No prs._

The random, incoherent words ran through Reid's line of vision, taunting him as he reread them, trying to grasp their meaning. It didn't make sense. It was shorthand, complete and total unreadable shorthand. Of course, some words were clearer than others- Fight, and work clearly indicated the obvious.

Perhaps they were medical terms, shortened for efficiency and not secrecy?

Pulling out a separate sheet of paper, he began scribbling down possible words for one line.

_Pt. Dss. fm ses. / work._

After a little over a minute, he had deciphered the sentence.

_Patient dissociated from the session, it did not work._

He continued, until he had several more lines figured out.

_Responds angrily to the attempt. Engaged in fight. Progress in tests?_

_Electric shock, calms temperament. Is this good or bad?_

_Paranoid schizophrenic symptoms? Or just temporary response? Progress good._

He paused over the last line. That couldn't be what it translated to, could it? His mind ran a list of everything that would fit in and be cohesive, but there wasn't any other than the one he had tried to disprove. Hesitantly, he wrote down.

_Raped patient. Became more unresponsive, no progress._

He stopped at this point, setting his pen down as he felt rage rush through him. What the hell was this man doing? And why? Even though he had decoded this bizarre form of shorthand, he was still no clearer on this UnSub than he was when he began. In fact, he was more confused. Not only was he torturing them for a medical experiment…but, from what he was gathering, he was torturing them for psychological experiments.

Shaking the disturbing thoughts away, he set the notes aside and then returned to the profile, based on what he was gathering from the notes.

_'Loose association,'_ he thought to himself, adding it to a mental checklist he was creating in his head. He shifted slightly on the rock he sat on, pushing his foot even deeper into the chilled water as he ran through the list once more. _'Cognitive dissonance, aware of how others perceive him, yet not aware of the true unethical actions he partakes in, conflicted ideas...black and white thinking? Would that apply in this situation?'_ he was sidetracked by his list as he began to wonder about just how bizarre this case was. It was more like there were several UnSubs, each with their own pathology instead of one. He never heard of a psychiatric case like this, and wondered if it were possible if the UnSub had several mild disorders working in comorbidity.

His thoughts were interrupted as a familiar voice broke through his mental barrier.

"Dr. Reid, how good it is to see you up and about," Dr. Wright said as he walked down the sloping rocks to join him.

Reid smiled at him, scooting over on his rock to make room for the doctor. He plopped down, stretching his legs and then curling them beneath him so as to avoid the water.

"How are you feeling?"

Reid shrugged. "Alright. My head isn't hurting so much anymore, only if I focus too hard."

Dr. Wright smiled happily as he gently clapped a thick, hard hand on the young man's back. "That's wonderful! You seem to have returned to your work as well. Not wasting a second are we?" he asked with a laugh, eyeing the notes with an odd sort of look in his eyes. For a reason Reid couldn't quite comprehend, he straightened the pile and then placed it face down to hide it from his view.

Dr. Wright only smiled.

"I spoke to your teammate- Agent Jareau. She spoke very highly of you, you know. Praised your intelligence. She also explained to me how you had a rather unfortunate time growing up because of your advancement," he said, the ever present smile there.

Reid bristled with his words. JJ gave away such private information? He felt hurt, betrayed almost, that she had been so free with his life and handed it out to a stranger. But then again, this was a doctor- his discharge doctor- and so she had probably reasoned that he had only his best intentions at heart.

He really needed to learn to trust more.

"Ugh, yeah. But it's in the past now," he said with a flourish of his hand, wanting the man to go away now.

"Well, from what she tells me, you still are quite socially awkward. And she's right, you have difficulty with eye contact, nervousness around others, inappropriate social interactions…"

Reid stared at the man, his heart thumping. Was he being…profiled?

Before his thoughts could go any further, Dr. Wright then said, "Have you ever been tested for Asperger's Syndrome? Because you match the description perfectly." He paused here for a second, before reaching back and sliding his hand inside his pocket and fiddling with the fabric. "You also fit the description of those men they've been finding."

His heart skipped a beat.

He swallowed heavily.

With a trembling, shaking voice he asked, "Pardon?"

In a voice so calm that the two men were a juxtaposition, he said, "The victims of The Doctor. You're just like them. Except," he looked up at the sky, a small smile appearing on his face. "You're better."

xXx

"Go faster, Morgan!" Hotch shouted, slightly betraying his normally cold exterior. Who knew how far away they were from Spencer? How close he was to being kidnapped? His chest was pounding and he couldn't distinguish the noise his heart was making from other external noises. He was convinced that Morgan could hear the _thadump thump….thadump thump_ of his heart as it beat harshly against his ribcage. Sweat covered his brow and he quickly wiped it away with the heel of his palm. _'Damn it, couldn't this car go any faster?'_

Behind them, practically tailgating them, were Rossi, JJ and Emily, immediately running on to the scene the moment they received the urgent call from their boss. Everyone was in a panicked state, desperately wanting to reach Reid before the Doctor did. But, as Hotch had noticed in the boardroom back at the station, Morgan was taking this more personally. It didn't take an in depth understanding of behavioral sciences to know that he blamed himself for Reid being placed in danger.

Turning his focus to the road and the quickly dissolving green that passed his sides as the car sped forward, he decided to focus on that later. Right now, that had to get Reid.

If they got the youngest member of the team to safety, he would comfort Morgan.

His eyes widened.

_When_ they got him to safety.

Not if.

He gulped nervously as he quietly prayed for Morgan to go even faster still.

xXx

**Author's Note:**** And so the real story begins! Tried my best to make it seem like a plausible account. I feel as though Reid has too much pride and also feels slightly ashamed that he's often considered the kid of the group and the one who needs most protection. Thank you to everyone who has reviewed, favorited, alerted this story. It means a lot and your thoughts and suggestions could only help me improve this story of mine. Present time now!**

**Also, a specific response to Gemma72: The thing about hospitals is they pretty much kick you out as soon as you're functioning in order to keep enough beds open, haha. I felt as though three days for a concussion and other injuries was fair, especially since they could no longer do anything for his injuries. And as for not speaking to him about the victimology, my thought was that they were doing it more for Reid's benefit than being dismissive. But I am trying to make it as plausible as possible, on all parts, so I'll try to explain their views regarding this situation better.**

**Chapter Six: Mad Men Know (Preview)**

He struggled on unsteady, shaking legs, trying to wrench himself free of the grasp. When the fingers released suddenly, leaving soon-to-be-bruises in its place, he stumbled backwards, unprepared for Dr. Wright to let go. As the flecks of green and brown and gold came into view from the trees above him as his vision finally settled somewhat and allowed blurs to become fuzzy, colorful shapes, a shove at his chest pushed him further back. And when he placed a foot down, searching for a stable surface, he found none.

His stomach slipped into his throat as he fell off the rock, crashing into the water before him, his leg cracking against a protruding rock below. He cried out in pain for only seconds before the water slipped into his open mouth and choked him. Sputtering and coughing, he frantically fought with all four limbs to resurface, to find air, to breathe. The water was strangling him, icy fingers wrapping around his neck and closing tight. The liquid seeping into his clothes dragged him under, weighing his tan slacks and shirt and sweater down and making his struggle for air even more difficult. His chest was collapsing, his lungs filling with water. He was going to drown.


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer:**** Criminal Minds and all its associated characters are property to CBS and no profit is being made from this story.**

**Author's Note:**** To Nina, a reviewer, I must say I enjoy tall guys as well. Particularly, skinny, tall guys who are nerdy. And you have just learned why I love Reid so much. Haha. And to velociraptoritis, me too, oddly enough. One of my favorite episodes is Revelation. Despite this, I really do love him I swear! Haha.**

**Chapter Six: Mad Men Know**

'_There is a pleasure, sure, in being mad, which none but mad men know!' –John Dryden_

All color had drained from Reid's face.

"What…what do you mean?" he asked as he shifted his hand to his side to place it reassuringly on the handle of his gun. The cold metal felt unpleasant against his skin, as always, but he continued to grip it until his knuckles turned white.

Dr. Wright turned to him, a dreamy smile gracing his face as he looked at Spencer with…was that adoration in his eyes? His blood was ran colder and colder as realization dawned on him. He was sitting side by side with the UnSub.

'_Be calm. Talk him up,'_ he thought to himself as he cleared his throat and asked again, "What do you mean by that, Doctor?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he reached over and grabbed the papers, pulling them towards himself and turning them over to read. His eyes scanned the page before holding them out before him, his arms outstretched as he placed two hands on the top side of the pile he held landscape wise. Then, he turned to Reid and said, "Not my better work. Best to let it go so I can move on." Then, he pulled his hands in opposite directions, one pulling towards him, the other pulling away from him, and ripped the stack in half. Then, he placed the two halves together and did the same, creating quarter pieces.

Reid watched as he crumpled the pieces together and then dropped it in the running water, letting the current carry the notes away. He swallowed nervously as he stood up, not wanting to have the disadvantage that he would have if he remained sitting. Slowly, he began to back away, but Dr. Wright turned to him, a far off look in his eyes now.

"Hopefully, my work will yield better results with you," he said.

Every survival instinct told him to run and never look back, but the profiler in him told him to keep cool and talk his way out of it until a clearer alternative could be discerned. So, shoving his emotions and instincts into that chest once more, he said, "And what work might that be?"

Dr. Wright snapped to attention then, as he shook his head sadly. "You think I'm wrong, don't you? Crazy, right?"

"No, no, no, of course not!" he stammered, before clearing his throat and adding in a calmer tone, "The others don't understand you, do they? But I do, I know why you're doing what you do. And I think it's wonderful," he lied, buying himself more time as he tried to still his nerves.

Dr. Wright smiled. "Of course. You…you would understand, wouldn't you? You and I are very much the same."

Something snapped with Reid in that moment he said those words.

Reid was smart.

Reid was a doctor.

Reid understood what it felt like to be outside of the norm.

But he _wasn't_ crazy. Dr. Wright was wrong.

And in that one instant, that chest jumped and rattled until the lock broke free and every emotion, every impulse, and every suppressed thought came loose. He shook visibly, his brown curls quivering with the violent motion, and his eyes narrowed, becoming colder than ever thought possible.

"I. Am. Nothing. Like. You," he said slowly and harshly, a large space between each word as though he were battling with himself on saying it.

Dr. Wright's eyes widened at this sudden outburst, but before he could say anything in response, Reid had pulled the gun out from his waist and was attempting to make his aim when Dr. Wright, with startling speed and reflexes, slammed a right hook across Reid's head, angling it so as to hit his concussion.

Reid's vision was immediately obstructed by white, exploding stars that made him swoon, his gun slipping from his hands. He barely registered the sound it made as it crashed from one flat rock to another, shattering piece by piece on the hard stone. Before his vision could even clear enough to collect himself, he felt a hand grip tightly around his forearm and instinct kicked in again.

He struggled on unsteady, shaking legs, trying to wrench himself free of the grasp. When the fingers released suddenly, leaving soon-to-be-bruises in its place, he stumbled backwards, unprepared for Dr. Wright to let go. As the flecks of green and brown and gold came into view from the trees above him as his vision finally settled somewhat and allowed blurs to become fuzzy, colorful shapes, a shove at his chest pushed him further back. And when he placed a foot down, searching for a stable surface, he found none.

His stomach slipped into his throat as he fell of the rock, crashing into the water before him, his leg cracking against a protruding rock below. He cried out in pain for only seconds before the water slipped into his open mouth and choked him. Sputtering and coughing, he frantically fought with all four limbs to resurface, to find air, to breathe. The water was strangling him, icy fingers wrapping around his neck and closing tight. The liquid seeping into his clothes dragged him under, weighing his tan slacks and shirt and sweater down and making his struggle for air even more difficult. His chest was collapsing, his lungs filling with water. He was going to drown.

And then fingers, warm and large, grabbed a fistful of hair and pulled him up. In what felt like hours but was really only seconds, he broke through the water's surface, gasping and coughing up water as he tried to take in air. Air! Sweet, clear, mountain air! He was so intent on breathing, on filling his lungs once more that he didn't realize until it was too late that the man who saved him was a killer.

His eyes shot open just in time to see a syringe plunge into his shoulder. He yelped as he felt a liquid drug rush into his body, into his muscle and blood as it raced to all destinations of his body. He reached over, trying to remove the needle before anymore could be injected, but he was too heavy, too lethargic. He felt so tired all of a sudden. His vision receded once more and everything became shapeless as his head lulled back and he went limp. His muscles weren't working, aside from a slight spasm as a result of the drug. Numbness invaded his body as he realized he wouldn't be able to fight.

And even though he was awake and fully aware of the world around him as he was carried across the creek and inside the car, bound and tied as a blanket covered him from sight, the drug caused something to occur in him that Reid had never experienced before.

He forgot the whole damn thing.

xXx

The drug was Ketamine, commonly used as a date rape drug. While Dr. Wright would've preferred something more effective to make his capture easier, Ketamine was the most fast acting and its effects were almost instantaneous. And it worked just as well. While Reid did still maintain a fight, the drug had weakened and slowed his motor system enough for it to be a mild nuisance instead of a hindrance. And he placed the man on the floor of the backseat, tying his hands and feet tightly as he slurred protests, his speech system being affected as well.

"Pleeesh," he drawled, his voice quiet as he tried to maintain a fight. Dr. Wright chuckled and leaned in, brushing some stray, wet locks out of his patients face.

"Don't worry, Spencer, I'll take good care of you," he said.

"No…d..don..pleesh," Reid said again, his eyes unable to focus and shifting wildly around as he fought against the drug coursing through his veins.

Dr. Wright didn't respond, just grabbed an old, fleece blanket and covered the man, the mess in his car from running between his home and the hospital effectively concealing him. There was nothing suspicious about a blanket when sweaters, shirts, pants and garbage littered the rest of his car.

Straightening himself up, he slammed the door shut and then walked over to the driver's side, slipping in and turning on the ignition as he began to drive home. He smiled, excited to begin studies on his new patient.

'_And this time,'_ he thought with a large smile, _'it will work.'_

xXx

"Up here, Morgan," Hotch said coolly as he pointed to an area off to the left, where the guard rail was bent and lead to a sloping hill, covered with slim oaks and birches. Morgan slowed to a stop and pulled over, running out of the car before it even came to a full stop as he grabbed his gun from his hip. Without waiting for Hotch or the others to follow, he threw his body over the guard rail and ran down to the water as if the rocks and trees proved no match for the determined FBI agent.

As the others ran over the guardrail and slid down the hill, they heard Morgan curse loudly.

"SHIT!" he shouted, kicking the base of a tree harshly before throwing his fist against it as well, wincing slightly as the bark ripped against his skin.

"Morgan, what- oh my god!" Emily began before clasping a hand over her mouth with her exclamation. Opposite them, on a large, flat rock that stood several feet above the water, was Reid's discarded messenger bag, his shoes and socks thrown to the side. Below that rock, one that jutted out slightly further, was a shattered Glock 17, and a large pool of blood.

Morgan then began jumping from rock to rock, reaching the stone with the blood, pulling himself up as he desperately searched for some other evidence that would prove that Reid wasn't the victim. But none could be found. The young man's broken gun was evidence enough that things did not go the way he had hoped, and he angrily bit his lip as Rossi called the station, reporting the disappearance.

JJ was sitting on a rock, staring absentmindedly at Morgan as he kicked another tree and Emily ran her hands through her dark hair in frustration. Slowly, trying to make as little fuss as possible, Hotch stepped back out onto the road and squeezed the bridge of his nose.

He failed him.

He was supposed to protect him and he failed him.

He was acutely aware of the way his body tensed and how his hands shook. He had known that Reid was the UnSub's preference. He had know that Reid, as smart as he was, would have too much pride to outright accept help as he wanted to prove himself. So why didn't he stop this from happening? Why did he let that monster get his hands on Reid?

He stopped his thoughts, trying to calm his breath.

He had to focus. He needed to work. He needed to pretend like this was just any other person, and treat it that way. He would be able to think clearly and be more likely to bring Reid back safe. But the accusations still ran through his head.

_He_ was the boss.

_He _should've stopped him.

_He_ should've known.

_He_ had failed Spencer Reid.

xXx

The team rushed into the station, filing into the boardroom as they tried to calm their frayed nerves. Focus was key. They had to forget about Reid in order to save him. They couldn't let such a thing cloud their judgment. They had to be objective.

That plan failed however, when Varney saw them and, noticing they were short one member, asked, "Hey, where's that smart one? Dr. Reid?"

"He's been kidnapped. By the UnSub," Hotch said quietly, preparing the room for their briefing as an excuse to not look at him.

"Wh…what?" the officer asked, his eyes wide in shock as he ran a hand through his wiry hair. "Oh my god…where? When?"

"When he was decoding the papers," Morgan said, his face resting in his hand as he stared down at the table, his hard, searing gaze practically burning through it.

Varney covered his mouth as he asked, "Where…where I told him to go? Oh my god. Oh my god, it's my fault! I suggested he go there, I…I didn't know…I…I'm so sorry…so sorry!" The police officer became hysterical as he was wracked with guilt. He had told him to go there! He put him in the hands of that monster! He was responsible for the genius who, only hours earlier, had astonished him with his capabilities and was now being sent to the slaughter!

Emily rested a firm hand on his arm, speaking soothingly as she explained, "It's not your fault. It's no one's fault. We need to focus now if we want to find him." With a nod and hollow smile, she turned away from him and sat down with the others.

The debriefing began.

"Garcia," Hotch called as he phoned in the technical analyst.

"Yes, Boss-Man?" she called cheerfully. Hotch bite his lower lip, knowing he was about to ruin whatever happiness was there.

"We have a new victim. I need you to pull up information on him so we could compare it side by side," he said, ignoring the quiet sob that came from a catatonic-like JJ.

"Of course, what's the young man's name?"

A pause followed before he cleared his throat.

"Spencer Reid."

xXx

**Author's Note:**** And the plot thickens! Thank you all again for your reviews, favorites and alerts. They mean a lot for this old writer (by that I mean old by how many years I've been writing, not my age- eighteen is hardly old at all.) Anyway, let me know what you think! I do enjoy reading your thoughts and suggestions.**

**Chapter Seven: Humor Me (Preview)**

"_You...you killed him," Morgan accused, feeling betrayal ache in his own heart._

_Hotch raised an eyebrow. "No, Morgan. You did." His cold eyes then looked down, and Morgan followed them, seeing his own hands clutched around the handle of the knife, blood spewing from the now warm and pale pink body. Choking sounds met his ears and he looked up to see Reid, alive, turning his sad hazel eyes to his friend._

"_Morgan," he coughed out, as blood began dripping down his chin, the stitches loose but still there as if they were cut through to uncover his mouth. "Wh...why?' Reid asked, and Morgan's hands flew away from the knife he wasn't even aware he had stabbed him with, jumping back as if it had burned him._


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer:**** Criminal Minds and all its associated characters are property to CBS and no profit is being made from this story.**

**Author's Note- VERY IMPORTANT:**** Two important things to know. The first, is that, as many of**

**you may have noticed, I have tailored certain information on characters, situations, and character backgrounds (particularly in regards to Spencer.) This is not a factual mistake, but an intentional rewriting (excluding that this chapter correctly names Spencer's height, which I still have yet to fix from the previous chapter.)**

**The second is that this rating will change, but, in order to accommodate readers who do not feel comfortable reading M-rated or sensitive material but would still like to continue with this story, a break will be made in between these sections. The break in question will be a capital M, flanked by symmetrical dash marks.**

**- - - M - - -**

**It will appear once at the start of the material in question, and appear once more at the end to ensure the reader can safely avoid offensive subject matter. The rating will not change though until the chapter that requires it is uploaded, which, according to my outline, is around Chapter 13.**

**Chapter Seven: Humor Me**

_'You should humor crazy people when you're at their mercy.' -Laurell K. Hamilton_

Garcia froze.

He wasn't being serious was he? He sounded so...dispassionate, so detached. Not at all like someone who had just had his teammate and- dare she say it, friend- kidnapped by a sadistic serial killer. He had to have been pulling a sick joke on her. They did have a conversation not too long ago where she had teased him relentlessly for his lack of a sense of humor...perhaps this was a misguided attempt to prove her wrong?

_'Yes,'_ she thought, as she suddenly realized her hands were shaking. _'That has to be it.'_

"Garcia, are you there?" came Hotch's voice.

Angrily, she said, "Yes, I am, and I don't think that's a good joke. You really shouldn't have a sense of humor if that's your idea of funny."

He sighed, tiredly and...sadly? "Garcia, this isn't a joke. He disappeared sometime between eleven this morning and one in the afternoon. When we arrived at the...at the crime scene, his bag was there, along with his gun, which was broken, and a pool of...blood. We had Forensics come in and we'll have to wait several days before they can confirm if it's Reid's blood."

She was sure her heart stopped.

"You...you can't really...I mean..." she began, hearing the way her voice stumbled over her emerging tears.

"Garcia, please. We need information," he said quietly.

She shook her head and took a deep breath, "Um, okay, what do you need?"

"Medical history, educational records, and anything along those lines, Garcia."

She nodded, even though he couldn't see her. Finally, she said, "Yeah, you've got it. I'll send it over right away."

While Garcia had never felt right about invading the private lives of the many she had been obligated to because of her job, this was downright wrong. It felt like she was going behind Reid's back, digging into his life for cruel and evil intentions. But she had to- they needed to compare him to...to the other victims.

She choked on a sob.

_'Pretend it's not Reid, pretend it's not Reid,'_ she told herself as she collected the necessary information, reading as little as possible as she could manage. It was bad enough that everyone on the team would have to read it, she could give him what little privacy she could by keeping her eyes away from it.

It felt so unreal, to be searching for him under such circumstances. So violating.

When all the information was together and collected, she sent it directly to Hotch and then decided a quick break was necessary.

Xxx

"Alright," Hotch began as he displayed the email on the large screen at the front of the room. Immediately, a photograph of Reid, stored in the FBI database, popped up. Long brown curls framed a strong yet thin face, with high cheek bones and sunken cheeks. A slight cleft to his chin and a hooded brow line cast shadows across his face, contrasting the pale look to his skin. His hazel eyes, shining with youth and knowledge, looked back at them with such familiarity that, one-by-one, each unit member looked away from them.

It was too much.

Hotch swallowed as he tried to proceed as normally as he would at any other time. "The UnSub has now captured SSA Dr. Spencer Reid." He hit a key on his keyboard and for a moment, the screen showed Reid's physical and medical records, but then split into six panels, one for each victim. Morgan and JJ visibly flinched at seeing their friend be compared to a victim. But he was a victim now.

"Like the other...victims, Dr. Reid" -maybe, just maybe if he called him so formally, he could conceive an entirely new entity in his mind and forget- "is a white male, age twenty-three, tall lean build, light weight." The medical report read:

_Name: Reid, Spencer_

_DOB:October 9, 1981_

_Weight: 137 lbs._

_Height: 6'2''_

_Notable qualities: Eidetic memory, genius IQ- 187._

"Each were withdrawn and described as socially awkward and uncomfortable." Hotch pressed a button and report from a school psychologist popped up and he looked briefly at the screen, reading his subordinate's school records.

_'Highly intelligent but lacks the tools for proper social interactions. Has hinted towards being bullied by his classmates. Displays traits indicative of the Autistic spectrum, but mother has requested that no evaluation be done.'_

He pressed a button.

The screen changed.

He read more.

_'Spencer Reid, only son of Diana Reid, has admitted his mother on the grounds that she is an unstable paranoid schizophrenic and unable to care for her any longer. Diana Reid exhibits...'_

He pressed a button.

The screen changed.

He read more.

_'While FBI applicant Doctor Spencer Reid demonstrates exceptional understanding of the law and all its underlying studies, particularly that of sociology, he has physical inhibitions that could hinder or even prevent his entry as a Special Agent. He has failed the endurance and strength part of the exams-especially notable was his inability to work a gun- but he has excelled in all other exams. Currently unsure of whether or not his physical limitations can be overlooked in order to allow him entry.'_

He pressed a button.

The screen changed.

He read more.

_'Psych. Evaluation for Dr. Spencer Reid, mandatory for FBI admittance. When questioned about his biggest fear, Dr. Reid avoided eye contact and, after much prompting, claimed his biggest fear was divided equally amongst inheriting his mother's gene for paranoid schizophrenia, particularly since he was so academically gifted, and the fear of the dark. When questioned about this fear, he claimed that it was the 'inherent absence of light' and not necessarily the dark itself. This fear could pose a difficulty when working certain cases as light is not always guaranteed. Dr. Reid also admits that he suffers from nightmares, but refused to explain any further. Fear of darkness, combined with nightmares, unstable mother and nervous mannerisms could possibly suggest signs of long-term abuse in childhood...'_

"STOP!" Morgan shouted, jumping from his seat so rapidly that the swivel chair flew back and crashed to the ground, the wheels spinning as he slammed his fists down on the table. Everyone turned to look at him, but avoided eye contact. He had done what they all wished they could've done.

Morgan looked up, breathless and livid as his cheeks shined with tears. "Just...stop...this...we can't. This is wrong," he seethed, glaring Hotch down with fiery brown eyes.

"Morgan, we have to. It's protocol to-"

"To hell with protocol! He's our friend! We can't invade his life like this!" He had now walked around the table to stand before Hotch, whose jaw clenched in anger.

"This is what we have to do, regardless of who it is. Now you can do this case like you would any other case and be objective, or you can be flown back to Quantico in the morning. Your choice." It was a challenge, and neither of the two men were willing to give in. Each stood tall and strong and willing. Dark eyes collided into dark eyes until Morgan walked to the door, practically ripping it off his hinges.

"I need to get some fresh air," he grumbled, standing in the threshold. Before he left, he turned to Hotch and said in a voice too cold for the normal friendly man, "The fact that you can do this like you would any other case and be objective _disgusts_ me."

He slammed the door with finality and left.

The room was silent as Hotch continued to look where his subordinate had once stood, the words sinking in. He wanted to treat it differently, because it was different. But he couldn't. Didn't Morgan understand that?

With a shuddering breath that reminded him of his age, he turned to his team members and said, "Let's take a break so we can all clear our heads." God knew he needed a break.

Xxx

Reid knew it was Ketamine the instant he felt the sluggishness, the inability to move, and heard the slurs in his own tired voice. Of course, it didn't last long as the Ketamine took another side effect and caused him to forget the entire scenario. And when he awoke in a brightly lit, windowless room, with various dressers and cabinets, both his wrists strapped to a hospital bed and him dressed in a hospital gown, a broken leg bandaged in a case from where the rock shattered it, he realized he was confused. When he came to, in perfect clarity and without any pain or residual weariness, he knew that the drug had somewhere overlooked his perfect memory and, while keeping him conscious, made him forget it all.

It was the first time he ever forgot something.

And he didn't like it. He didn't like the uncertainty of what might have happened to him and he most certainly didn't like the absolute confusion he felt. He felt so put out of the loop, so without knowledge. His intelligence was one of the few things he could hold onto, and now he didn't have it.

Trying his hardest to push this thought from his mind and overlook the disadvantage, he started to analyze his situation. A mental list once again formed in his head.

_'I was captured by the UnSub, who is Dr. Andrew Wright.'_

_'He has a personal hospital/ operating room set up for his victims.'_

And even though he tried to be logical, tried to dissociate himself from this situation enough to not be effected by it, he couldn't help but turn that list into a set of accusations, turned against him and his...stupidity. Yes, Boy Genius, child prodigy, inhumanly smart Dr. Spencer Reid was _stupid_ and that's what his mind kept telling him. It just kept throwing out evidence after evidence of all the reasons why it was his fault that he was captured.

_'I didn't listen to my instincts.'_

_'I didn't listen to Morgan.'_

_'I overlooked facts about the case- where the victims were kidnapped, and even that they were just like me.'_

_'I created the wrong UnSub profile...'_

A new, even more frightening thought came over him. What if the team looked for the UnSub based on his profile? He was wrong- so off from the actuality of the situation. But...it made sense, right? It was a solid profile- even the team thought so! They agreed with him, they created the investigation based on it!

Dread filled him. He failed the team and got himself kidnapped by a serial killer. Every part of his being prayed that they would realize that Reid's profile was wrong and change it so they can capture Dr. Wright and get him to safety as soon as possible.

He wanted to hit himself when he thought about his last conversation with Morgan. He had made it such a point that he needed to be able to handle himself out in the world and then he goes and gets drugged and captured.

_'Bravo, really got that point across wonderfully,' _a bitter part of him thought.

If only he could've put his fear and pride in that chest he would've let Morgan come with him and...and what? Would it help? Or would Morgan just get hurt in the cross fire? Or worse? No, in the end it was better this way. He knew he wouldn't have been able to live with himself if something happened to Morgan because he got in the way of the UnSub. He'd much prefer whatever fate he got without dragging Morgan, or anyone, down with him. Besides, he deserved it for being so...oblivious. No one else should be punished because _he_ was so stupid.

Some part of his mind laughed wryly at this. It really was so ironic, him being so stupid. A genius IQ meant nothing when you lacked common sense, he supposed.

He struggled against the restraints once more, ignoring the awful clank of metal against metal as he pulled his wrists this way and that, knowing even before he began it was a fruitless effort. But he still kept trying, twisting and contorting his body with hope beyond hope that he might dislodge the bindings.

_Clink._

_Clink._

_Clink._

The sound rang through the air, becoming more frantic when his movements did the same as panic settled in. And the more he thought about the notes and what he knew- what he decoded, the Coroner reports of the victims, the pictures- the panic only grew. It consumed him until all rational thought was impossible and the chest in his mind was officially broken. Would he become like that? With the scars and scabbed over burns? Naked and...and...

Oh god, he needed to get out!

As he continued to fight against the bed he was trapped to, a new sound joined the _clinking_ and the _clanking_ of the metal and the slight, panicked whimpers from Reid. The sound was a large metal door, opening and then slamming shut with the heavy material.

Startled, Reid stopped and looked at the direction of the door, in the corner diagonal from where the bed sat, and saw Dr. Wright walking towards him, a smile on his face.

He swallowed what felt like a large lump of bread stuck in his throat as he stuck his chin out in a show of defiance. Of course, it was difficult to seem intimidating when you're in nothing but a hospital gown and chained to a bed. Dr. Wright seemed to have thought so too, as he chuckled the closer he got.

"Dr. Reid...may I call you Spencer?' he asked, as if it just occurred to him how dreadfully formal '_Dr. Reid'_ sounded.

His lip twitched. "You can call me whatever you want if you let me go," his voice was calm and friendly, betraying everything that was really going on inside his mind. It was his training coming back to him. After the initial fear and panic had subsided with the man's entry, his mind cleared and went into Special Agent mode once more.

"I can't let you go just yet, Spencer. And feel free to call me Andrew."

"Why not, Andrew? Why can't you let me go?"

Andrew gave him a sympathetic look. "Because, Spencer. You're not well. When you're well, I'll let you go."

His heart rate sped up. Did he...did he really think he was _helping_ his victims? "What do you mean I'm not well? I...I feel fine. So could you...could you discharge me? Please?" he asked, trying to smile but finding it difficult to do so.

But the Doctor just sighed, tiredly. "I'm afraid you don't understand the full extent of you illness, Spencer. You may feel fine, but you're not." He then raised a finger and tapped it against Reid's forehead, who stiffened at the touch. "Not up here, at least."

Something was wrong with his brain? He couldn't help the shiver that ran up his spine at the suggestion. He was fine, physically and mentally. He really, really was.

"No, I'm fine up there too," he said, licking his lips nervously. "I...I'm not insane," he whispered. At first he was unsure that Andrew had heard him, but then he responded with a heavy sigh.

"Sometimes, Spencer, the most sane thing you can do is believe you're insane."

He turned away from the doctor, feeling a stinging sensation at the bottom of his eyes as his words sunk in. He wasn't insane. No, he wasn't. He was Special Agent Dr. Spencer Reid for the FBI's BAU team. He had three Ph.D's in math, chemistry and engineering, two BA's in psychology and sociology and working on a BA in philosophy. He specialized in geographical profiling and finding and discerning patterns. He had a genius IQ of 187, an eidetic memory and could read twenty-thousand words a minute. He grew up in Las Vegas, went to California Tech when he was twelve. This was _real_. This was _reality. _He wasn't going to let some serial killer take that away from him.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see Andrew, smiling once more. "But don't worry, Spencer. We'll have you stabilized and sane in no time."

And he was out the door before Reid had a chance to say, "But I already am..."

xXx

_Morgan kicked down the door, gun raised high and aimed ahead of him as he made room for JJ, Rossi and Emily to enter, each carrying their guns high as well. Bullet-proof vests printed with _FBI_ across the front adorned the torsos of the agents as they each made their way into the old house._

_It was falling apart, with the roof caving in and shattered windows. The walls were dark with grime and old, golden brown wallpaper, which had in a previous life been white, was peeling off, leaving bare areas of exposed wood. The floor sunk with every step and threatened to fall in with the weight of the combined agents, but it didn't. It kept strong, even when individual floorboards picked up from the floor beneath it and the support gave way just a little more. The whole house smelt like a combination of must, mothballs and stale urine and Morgan resisted the urge to plug his nose as he continued to walk through the house._

"_Move outside! We've got nothing!" Rossi called as he escaped through the kitchen door, which fell off its hinges and crashed to the ground. They followed, Morgan taking up the rear as they came into the back yard._

_The yard sloped immediately into rocks that lead down to the shining waters of the Esopus Creek except...it wasn't water. It was blood- thick and dark, dark red with a heavy metallic scent that invaded his senses and made him gag. The blood lapped up onto the stones, coating them in crimson as the currents carried it further down the Esopus._

_And in the middle of the creek, on a flat, red coated stone was Hotch, standing over Reid._

_Throwing his gun to the side, Morgan ran across the creek, sluggishly as the thick substance provided more of a resistance to his movements, and came to the rock, falling to his knees beside his friend._

_His skin was gray and cold to the touch, various healed wounds and scabbed burns marred his naked and exposed body. His lips and eyes were stitched together crudely with thick black thread that shown in contrast to the pallor of his skin. Even his brown curls seemed duller and grayer, as if the natural color was fading over time. Reid was dead._

_Tentatively, Morgan reached and cupped his cold shallow cheek as his large shoulders shook with tears. He was about to pick up the corpse when a knife plunged deep into Reid's motionless chest, directly above his heart. With a startled gasp, Morgan looked up and saw Hotch release the blade, standing back with an unreadable expression on his face._

"_You...you killed him," Morgan accused, feeling betrayal ache in his own heart._

_Hotch raised an eyebrow. "No, Morgan. You did." His cold eyes then looked down, and Morgan followed them, seeing his own hands clutched around the handle of the knife, blood spewing from the now warm and pale pink body. Choking sounds met his ears and he looked up to see Reid, alive, turning his sad hazel eyes to his friend._

"_Morgan," he coughed out, as blood began dripping down his chin, the stitches loose but still there as if they were cut through to uncover his mouth. "Wh...why?' Reid asked, and Morgan's hands flew away from the knife he wasn't even aware he had stabbed him with, jumping back as if it had burned him._

"_I...I didn't..." he tried to say, but he couldn't speak; the sight before him too much to bear as Spencer Reid died for the second time, with Morgan being his murderer._

A scream that never made it out of his mouth got caught in Derek Morgan's throat as he sat up straight in his bed, his heart pumping fast and his breath coming out in ragged, horrible gasps. Clutching his shirt to his chest, he closed his eyes, only to open them when the image of Reid, dead and dying and then dead again, flashed in front of his lids like a macabre movie. His hands were shaking almost frighteningly so and the room suddenly seemed too small. He stood up from his bed, prepared to leave when his eyes got caught on the bed adjacent to his, neat and tidy. Reid's bed. They had shared the hotel room.

The room was officially too small and without air now, and with speed he wasn't aware he possessed, Morgan ran from the room and from the hotel and onto the street, meeting the pink skies of sunset. When he had told Hotch he would go out for some air, he decided a nap was a good idea. He needed to get away from the situation, only for an hour or so, and now regretted it as the day turned to evening and any chance of respite was closing up for the night. He couldn't return to the hotel room. Not knowing that he was sleeping next to the bed that Reid would be in if...

If Morgan hadn't let him get captured.

xXx

**Author's Note:**** Responses to the last chapter- the preview- were pretty fierce here. I will not kill off Reid, partly because Character Death is not my strong suit (however, I am trying to remedy this weakness, but don't worry, not in this story) and partly because cactuses hurt like a bitch, haha. Any story of mine that does feature character death will contain a warning at the very beginning of the story, saying so. No warning, no death. YAY! **

**Anyway, let me know what you think! Personally, this is my favorite chapter so far, I especially like the dream/nightmare. Creepy. Anyway...**

**Chapter Eight: Destroying their Mind (Preview)**

"Now, Spencer," Andrew said softly, silencing the young man. "I need you to understand something. This whole FBI fantasy of yours...it's just that. A fantasy. The sooner you accept that the sooner-"

"No!" Reid shouted, his hands shaking with that long time fear. It wasn't true. He was lying. "No, it's not a fantasy. It's real, it's-"

He felt the slap before he saw it.

His cheek stung and his left eye got teary from the sudden shock of pain. He swallowed harshly, wincing at the remaining pain. He was sure there was a giant red mark on his face now, and as he turned to face Andrew, he knew that that wasn't the last of the assaults to come.


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer:**** Criminal Minds and all its associated characters are property to CBS and no profit is being made from this story.**

**Author's Note:**** I repeat again, specific information and back stories for characters, namely Spencer Reid, has been altered for my own purposes.**

**Chapter Eight: Destroying their Mind**

'_For those whom God to ruin has designed He fits for fate and first destroys their mind.' –John Dryden_

Reid woke up before he even knew he was asleep.

He had been fighting against his restraints once more, sweat slicking his face and matting his hair as his arms protested at such drastic struggles. He remembered taking a rest, laying his arms by his side, ignoring the way they throbbed, and closed his eyes as he tried to even his breathing. He must've fallen asleep then.

The more awake he became, the more he realized just how hungry and thirsty he was. He had been given food, but refused to eat it for fear that it might've been poisoned. But really, what would that change? It would only keep him stronger and keep his stomach from turning against him. Deciding it would be best to be as healthy as possible he resolved to accept food the next time it was offered. His stomach growled in agreement to this plan.

As if on cue, the door creaked open and Andrew entered the room, carrying a covered tray with him.

"Breakfast time, Spencer. Will you actually eat this?" he asked, placing the tray on a small, wooden table and standing with his hands on his hips.

Licking his lips in hunger, he nodded. "Yes, yes I will."

Andrew clapped his hands together as he smiled. "Wonderful! After breakfast, we'll have our treatment team meeting and discuss which medications are best for you, alright?" Reid wanted to argue, shout at him that he didn't need any medicine- that he didn't need a treatment team meeting, but his stomach was twisting into knots in his belly and he was afraid that his food would be taken away as punishment for such behavior. So, he saved his words for later and nodded, afraid that he might speak out if he agreed vocally.

In several steps, Andrew was at his side and began to undo his bindings. Every impulse in Reid screamed _"FIGHT! RUN!" _And before the signal in his brain was recognized by him, he threw his now free right hand in a hard, well aimed hook. As Andrew fell to the side with the assault, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and ran, his long legs bringing him across the large room in eleven bounds despite the broken leg, adrenaline dulling his nerves. And as he grabbed the doorknob and twisted it to all sides, he realized with horror that it was locked.

Despite this, he still continued to twist and pull, thinking he could loosen the bolts surrounding it. But it wouldn't budge. He was stuck. And more importantly, he had attacked and angered a serial killer. He fell to the floor, still gripping the doorknob, and watched as Andrew stood and gave him a stern look.

"Now, Spencer. You need to behave- you know the rules," he said, producing a small needle from his lab coat along with a bottle of some tranquilizer. Reid eyed the needle as he shuffled closer to the corner, giving the knob one final pull that, like the others, did nothing.

"You...you never told me the rules," he said, standing up once more to his full height.

Andrew shook his head. "Yes, yes I did. I told you when you were first admitted here, remember?'

Reid stuck his chin out. "I came here yesterday. You forced me here."

Andrew was now standing directly in front of him, the needle still held in his hand as he frowned at Reid. "I forced you here because you escaped, and I needn't to return you. Your treatment wasn't working." His eyes widened in fear of what he was insinuating.

"No, no, no!" Reid said firmly as he pressed himself even further into the corner, trying to avoid the needle that would render him unconscious. "I didn't escape. I was working with my team, and you took me. I have no treatment, I don't need treatment, I-" His volume increased the more he talked, fear settling into him. He wasn't insane. What he was saying was wrong- he was a serial killer, he tortured his victims, and this was part of his torture- psychological torture.

He stuck his hands out to push the man away, but Andrew grabbed his wrist and pulled it forward, causing Reid to cry out in pain. He held the young man up by his wrist, seemingly oblivious to the way he fought and twisted his body against him, and reached around him, shoving the needle into his bottom.

He gasped at the sudden pinch of the needle, and then proceeded to fight before the drug took effect and once again he fell limp and at the mercy of his captor.

Xxx

Hotch entered the boardroom, rubbing his face as he walked over to the coffee maker and started making his morning brew. The operative word being morning, as it was only four o'clock. He had been unable to sleep much, and decided that nothing would help him more than trying to help Reid. And so he left his hotel room and headed over to the station, readying himself to pour over the facts and speculations to come up with some clues, some answers.

He failed Reid once.

He wouldn't fail him again.

He sat down in his seat with his cup of slightly sweetened coffee and reviewed all cases, learning things he never wanted to learn about Spencer Reid.

He learned that he had accumulated an oddly high amount of hospital visits for "accidents" between the ages of three and ten.

He learned that William Reid abandoned Spencer and Diana when his son was ten, coincidentally when the hospital visits stopped.

He learned that when Reid was four he had joined a softball team but was never very good at it, even though his father coached the team.

He learned that Reid's mother had attempted to file an assault claim, stating that several of Reid's classmates stripped him naked and then tied him to a pole, but that she had inexplicably dropped it.

He learned...way too damn much than he felt comfortable knowing.

Shaking his head with the newly attained information, he decided to compare Reid's profile- he shivered at the word- with the profile of the other victims. He grabbed a stack of folders towards him and began flipping through them, taking notes as he went.

It was an hour into this when he heard the door open and looked up to see Morgan, dark bags under his eyes and a coffee cup from a gas station in his hand.

"I ugh...couldn't sleep," Morgan explained as he shrugged and walked over to the coffee pot, completing the same ritual as Hotch as his coffee had long since gone cold.

There was a long moment of silence before Hotch said, "You know Morgan, this isn't like any other case. Even if I want it to be, it's not." Morgan nodded in understanding as they continued to look at each other, neither avoiding eye contact as they set themselves into a staring match.

"I'm sorry. I was just-" Morgan started but Hotch raised a hand.

"Don't worry about it. We're all feeling the same way," Hotch said. Morgan gave a half-hearted smile as he took his coffee and sat down beside his boss, nodding towards his files.

"What are you doing?"

Hotch looked towards the reports in questions and scratched behind his ear. "I'm comparing all the victims, seeing if there's something different. And if so, why he changed his victomology so suddenly. While Reid matched-"

"Matches," Morgan corrected, and Hotch nodded.

"While Reid matches the other victims in physical and personality traits, he's also drastically different. He's an FBI agent, while the other victims were college students training for a more academic line of work. Our UnSub would have had to have recognized this about Reid. If he knew Reid matched the personalities of his preferred type, then he had to have watched him, if only for a day. In which case, he would've learned he was an FBI agent. Because he's an FBI agent, he also presents more of a risk- Reid carries a gun, and, if the UnSub ties himself to Reid, than he ties himself to us, which brings us closer to him. So why continue to go after him?" Hotch said, stroking his chin in contemplation.

Morgan shrugged before saying, "Maybe Reid had something he couldn't resist."

Hotch looked up at him, yet his eyes seemed to look past him, something he often did when he was wracking his brain. After a minute or so he said, "Later on, we'll have Garcia eliminate everything that Reid has in common with the victims and create an isolated list of the differences."

"Sounds like a plan," he responded, but he seemed less than enthused.

"We'll find him, don't worry," Hotch said after a second of silence.

"You don't understand. Hotch I...I told him we would protect him, that we would make sure nothing happened to him. I lied to him."

xXx

Reid felt exhausted once he woke up. He was sure that he represented a zombie more than he did a man and his stomach by now was practically violent. He didn't know how many meals he had missed but he knew he could go for several servings of...anything.

He licked his lips at the thought of a cheeseburger, with bacon and pickles and fries. And coffee. He needed coffee; he hadn't had any in too long. Coffee and a croissant with eggs and cheese...

_'No, don't think of food,'_ he told himself, squeezing his eyes shut as if it would stop the relentless gurgling and churning going on in his abdomen. It didn't work, not like he was surprised though.

He sat up as much as the metal restraints would allow and decided to examine the room, suppressing his physical pain by jamming as much as he could into his still somewhat groggy mind. The door was diagonal from his bed, facing the wall opposite the one the headboard was placed against. Beside that was the small wooden desk that, hours before, his breakfast had been placed on. A simple chair with metal armrests and restraints, long enough to allow for him to eat and write but nothing else, were attached to it. A wooden dresser with padlocks on ever drawer sat beside it and next to it stood a matching armoire with drawers below the closet doors, unlocked for his use. In the wall opposite him, a door was set in the middle, and he could only assume that it lead to a bathroom.

Speaking of a bathroom...

He shifted his legs and gasped in pain as his suspicions were confirmed: he had been attached to a catheter. While it solved one...immediate problem, he stiffened at the thought of having been touched so intimately while unconscious.

_'As if this is the worst that will happen,'_ that cynical part of his mind said again, and he wished it hadn't. The images of the victims and the reports came rushing back to him and he felt anticipatory fear overcome him. He wouldn't turn out like them, would he? His team would find him before then, right? He could try to escape... he would just need to plan. Be logical. He needed to think it through and study this insane doctor to find a weakness, an opening. And then he would act.

But right now, he needed food.

He was starting to feel nauseous and dizzy, his head so lightweight that it seemed as if it could float away at any moment. Little white dots marred his vision and he was aware that if he didn't get food soon, he would pass out once more, but for a more natural reason than just drugs being pushed into his bloodstream.

Clearing his throat, he started calling out to his captor. "Hello? Anybody? Please, I need food. I...I'm very hungry. Can I please have some food?" He waited several minutes but no response came. He swore under his breath. If this guy thought he was running some mental ward, wouldn't he be more responsive to his 'patients'?

A sudden realization hit him then. He was a doctor- he worked at a hospital. Their shifts were nearly as erratic as his. It could be hours before he even had a chance to get food. He moaned into his shoulder at the idea of waiting any longer.

He buried his face into the flat yet soft pillow as he began murmuring what he had made his mantra for the next four hours: _'Behave just this once to get food. No escape, no refusal to eat, just play into it.'_

xXx

Reid had never been so happy to see an UnSub as he was at the moment Andrew walked through his door with a tray of warm, aromatic food. He licked his lips once more as his stomach made an extremely violent motion within him, as if it were attempting to break free and snatch the food for itself.

"Are you ready for dinner, Spencer?" he asked, raising an eyebrow as he placed the tray on the table again.

He nodded eagerly.

"Will you behave?"

He hesitated, than nodded again.

Slowly, as if disbelieving his patient, he walked over to him and undid his restraints once more. This time, Reid didn't fight and he let himself be pulled from the bed and to the chair, where Andrew strapped him in. He bit his lip, prepared to eat himself if the food didn't come fast enough. But then he lifted the lid off the plate and Reid was faced with the most glorious looking dinner of baked chicken, mashed potatoes and steamed carrots. A dinner role was placed beside the dish and he had a can of soda and a bottle of water to quench his thirst. He barely waited for the fork to be handed to him before he dug in, eating as politely as his angry stomach would allow. Not as if he should really care to be polite.

Half way through his meal, Andrew sat down on the desk and folded his hands on his lap, looking down at him.

"We'll have to move your meeting to tomorrow. We can discuss some medication then, as your previous set was not working," he said, but Reid barely listened to the words- partly because he was too focused on food and partly because he didn't care for whatever game he was playing at. He wasn't crazy- he wasn't a psychiatric patient- but he would play at it if he needed to.

Xxx

"What do you got, Baby-Girl?" Morgan asked as Garcia pulled up the isolated list Hotch had requested to the front window.

"Hotch was right, Reid's the only one that has many notable differences from the others- the five previous victims were so close that they even had the same blood type- A positive if you were wondering. Reid's O negative- he should donate blood more, that type comes in handy. But anyway, here are the biggest differences, aside from Reid's you know...Reid-iness."

"Intelligence?" Morgan asked with a chuckle.

She smiled. "Yeah, you got it. Anyway, the list is: Reid's line of work- it requires more risk and physical expertise while the others were more mathematician, computer engineering type things. Reid's hobbies- the other victims had more outdoorsy type hobbies like fishing and camping and hiking. Physical health- Reid has more reported injuries and hospital visits than the others, as well as having more histories of illness in him and his family. The other victims and their families had a clean bill of health- physical and mental while Reid's mother was diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia. She's currently institutionalized in a sanitarium in Las Vegas. Her prognosis reveals that she has made little progress but is relatively functioning considering some of the people we've seen.

"Anyway, I'm sending a copy of the list to you and all the others," she said, sending the file at the very moment.

"Thanks, Garcia. Knew I could count on you," he responded.

She smiled wide as she said, "Of course, Hot Stuff." Her smile faded, though, as she stared at her screen, the list still displayed as she added in a sober voice, "Morgan...please, bring him home."

"I intend to. We all do."

A wide, genuine smile appeared on her face, her painted red lips lifting up and curving. There was so much strength in his voice, so much sturdiness and calmness that, despite the odds of the situation, made her believe that Reid would be alright.

xXx

"So, Spencer, why'd you escape?" Andrew asked as Reid sat on his bed, bound once more to the metal railings as the doctor sat himself down on the desk chair beside him, a clipboard balanced on his lap.

"I didn't," Reid started and Andrew sighed.

"What do you think happened then?" he asked.

Reid shifted slightly, choosing his words carefully. "I know that you are a very intelligent man. I know that you feel like the world doesn't understand your medical findings- and I also know that you took me to test your medical theories on. And I want you to know, that if you let me go, I can get you the recognition you deserve." He paused for a moment, forcing a smile on his face. "I read about your procedures and I think that they're brilliant. And I can help you. Just let me go and I can-"

"And how exactly do you intend to help me?" the doctor asked, raising a condescending eyebrow.

He licked his lips. "I work for the FBI. I can pull some strings for you. I can get some professor from California Tech to-"

"Now, Spencer," Andrew said softly, silencing the young man. "I need you to understand something. This whole FBI story of yours…it's a fantasy. A fantasy. The sooner you accept that the sooner-"

"No!" Reid shouted, his hands shaking with that long time fear. It wasn't true. He was lying. "No, it's not a fantasy. It's real, it's-"

He felt the slap before he saw it.

His cheek stung and his left eye got teary from the sudden shock of pain. He swallowed harshly, wincing at the remaining sting. He was sure there was a giant red mark on his face now, and as he turned to face Andrew, he knew that that wasn't the last of the assaults to come.

"Spencer, I don't want to do this, but you need to understand the truth," he said as he walked over to the bag he had carried in with him and produced a small knife. Panic swam through Reid's veins as once more the pictures of the victims flooded his mind, his attention focused on the stab and cut wounds.

In an attempt to avoid that, he called out, "Y-yes, you're right. It's all a fantasy. I'm sorry I escaped."

Andrew stood before him now, the knife in his hand as he frowned and shook his head. "This is a little practice called cognitive reinforcement. It's for your own good." And with that, he launched himself at Reid, who screamed out and flung his body and limbs in every direction possible, trying to throw the man off him. His movements stilled when he felt a sharp and painful pierce in thigh.

He screamed through gritted teeth, subconsciously pulling his body inward to wrap his arms around his knees in comfort. But his restraints didn't have enough give for him to do so, so he brought his injured leg upward and curled it into him, uncaring of how exposed he was at the very moment. He could only focus on the unnatural searing heat in his thigh, now slick with blood. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he registered how wet his abdomen was becoming from clutching his bloody thigh so close to him through the thin material, but it wasn't even a mild nuisance at the moment.

He turned as much to his side as he could and bit the inside of his cheeks until he tasted metal. It hurt so much...his entire thigh throbbed. How deep was it? He didn't dare look- he was afraid that if he did he would see the gray, scarred thigh of the other victims.

When hands grabbed onto him, he flinched, but fell into it when he became too weak to fight. Whoever it was who grabbed him- the identity eluded his mind at the moment- was being gentle, almost caring. He knew he was in danger, he just couldn't remember how exactly...the pain in his thigh was evident of it, but his mind wasn't clear anymore.

Deciding the hands were too gentle to be the danger, he let darkness overcome him as his body lost too much blood...

xXx

"I cut too deep," Andrew muttered as he placed the now unconscious Reid on the table, peeling off the sticky and blood soaked hospital gown before he collected what would be needed to clean this wound.

He hadn't meant to plunge the knife as deeply as he did, nor did he mean to pull it downward to create a gash. But Reid had struggled too much and in the end, only made it worse for himself. Now Andrew had pulled his movable tray, stacked with medical supplies towards him as he began fixing the wound, grimacing when he saw the horrible off-white color of bone.

He worked quickly, trying to fix the gash while being careful of the already broken leg. Spencer was proving to be quite a challenge- just as he had suspected. FBI agents often have much fight in them and his patient was no different. But eventually, his plan would work. Spencer would doubt himself, doubt his reality. One day he would be lying in his hospital bed and think, _'If my mom was crazy, and I'm told I'm crazy, than clearly, I must be crazy.'_ And Spencer would cooperate- give in to whatever he told him. He would believe everything Andrew said and think that everything he knew about his life was just a delusional, psychotic creation.

Yes, he would break him.

He could already see the feral glint in Spencer's eyes whenever he hinted that he was a psychiatric patient. He was desperately clinging to what he knew- but starting to doubt if what he knew was the truth. He would get him, though.

Spencer would crack.

And then the real experiments could begin.

xXx

**Author's Note:**** This chapter was brought to you by **_**Shutter Island**_**! Seriously, I wrote the thing and even I kept flashbacking to that movie as I reread it. Oh well. What did you think? Any suggestions? Ideas? Rants? Let me know and I'll see what I can do.**

**Also, Reid got the booty juice!**

**Chapter Nine: Lock and Key (Preview)**

"Tomorrow, we're going to interview everyone on the list Garcia gave us. We'll break into teams, you and me, Rossi and JJ and Morgan and Varney," he said, and Emily smiled. She knew that if anyone could be relied on to remain calm and collected in the face of danger, it was her boss. He would make sure everyone kept their wits about them, made sure everyone focused on saving Reid, even if he himself allowed for a moment of grief, as he had just experienced. And she hoped with everything she had, that would Reid would somehow know just how loved and care for he was, despite whatever he was being subjected to.

Repressing the thought and imagery that crossed her mind in only the way a profiler could compartmentalize everything, she said, "We'll find him. We're all working our butts off and Reid is an incredibly strong person. A lot stronger than I think he receives credit for."

Hotch opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off by the door opening and Varney stepping through.

"Hey, I'm really sorry to interrupt, but we have a woman out here," he said, breathless and wide-eyed as a small, hopeful smile flitted onto his visage. "She says she thinks she knows who the UnSub is."


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer:**** Criminal Minds and all its associated characters are property to CBS and no profit is being made from this story.**

**Chapter Nine: Lock and Key**

'_A man who is "of sound mind" is one who keeps the inner madman under lock and key.' –Paul Valery_

A photograph of Spencer Reid lay on the table, a candid one taken by JJ one night after a particularly long and exhausting case. She remembered being tired on the ride back to Quantico, but forced herself awake because it would only be more difficult to nap on the jet and then get up and drive home. In an attempt to busy herself and her mind, she took a camera and began taking snapshots of everything. She had a picture of Rossi "reading" a book- oddly enough with his eyes closed- a picture of Morgan winking at her in a very posed way, and a picture of Hotch laughing after a particularly witty jab at Reid- this picture in question thought to be the only one of its kind, as Hotch did not smile nor laugh often enough. But the picture that lay out before her was the one she had taken of Reid- his eyes wide and his lips slightly parted, dark curls covering his face. He hadn't been aware that she was taking a photo until seconds before she did, capturing his surprise at the precise moment.

She sniffled slightly as she rubbed at her blotchy eyes, her hair hanging down around her and covering the photograph. She still couldn't believe it…It had been two days now that he was gone and she still couldn't believe it. She felt for sure that she would see him walk through the door and into the boardroom, making a beeline to the coffee maker. She imagined he would get his cup, and Morgan would ask if he wanted some coffee with his sugar, and he would ignore him, sitting down and start talking about his newest theory on the UnSub. He would sprout out random, confusing facts and statistics that left the team with wide, exasperated eyes before he realized he was the only one who even knew what he said half the time.

But that wouldn't happen.

He couldn't walk through the door because he was being held captive by the UnSub, having God knew what happen to him. She whimpered at the images from the first debriefing of this case. To much her chagrin, the subjects of those photographs morphed and became a dead Reid, and she saw herself and the team find his body in the creek.

Cold.

Lifeless.

Naked.

Scarred.

Burned.

She nearly screamed at the pictures floating through her mind- but the team needed her, Spencer needed her, and she couldn't help him or anyone if she was suffering a nervous break (Or, as Spencer were say if he were there, a major depressive episode- they don't call them nervous breakdowns anymore). So with a calming breath, she stood and snatched the photo off the table, cramming it into her bag to be forgotten until it was okay to feel emotional again.

As she began collecting her stuff together, thinking of anything she could that wasn't related to Spencer- which was near impossible as everything reminded her of a random fact he had stated- the door clicked open and Hotch entered halfway into the room.

"We're about to release the profile."

And like that he was gone, the door clicking in place.

Biting her lip, she smoothed her hair and washed her face before heading off to find him, hoping this would bring them closer to Spencer.

xXx

"The man we're looking for is most likely a white male, in his late twenties to late thirties," Hotch said at the cameras and cameramen before him, as reporters waited anxiously to hear more. "He's charismatic, and very outgoing but can have unexplainable moments of detachedness- staring at something for minutes, or avoiding specific topics."

Emily stepped in now. "We think this man might've been a student in medical school and was close to achieving a doctorate when he was kicked out- most likely for some unethical theories or ideas. He's very upset about this fact but still tries to hold onto it in his occupation or even in his personal life. He may often suggest unwarranted medical advice or volunteer to do a medical procedure, small or large, for you," she said, nodding her head as reporters wrote down what she was saying with lightning speed.

"Though this man is unstable, he may seem perfectly normal. He is extremely dangerous though and we ask that everyone proceed with caution in their day to day lives. If you suspect anyone, we ask that you call your local police station and provide the information to someone working the case," Hotch explained.

"If you do know of someone you suspect, do not approach them. This killer- The Doctor- believes that his work is admirable and necessary, so anyone who approaches him will most likely put him on the offensive. He thinks people don't understand his work and so will be highly protective of it if questioned," Emily added before asking, "Any questions?"

Questions and comments were fired off, but eventually among the chaos and cacophony of it all, they managed to hear one question loud and clear.

"Is it true one of the latest victims was one of your own, Agent Hotchner?"

Any noise that followed that was unheard of then, as that all consuming guilt and anger came crashing back to Hotch, almost knocking him off his feet. But, as always, he was the picture of calmness as he bit the inside of his cheeks and said, "Yes, Special Agent Dr. Spencer Reid was captured Tuesday, between the hours of eleven in the morning and one in the afternoon."

New questions emerged, focusing specifically on what was just revealed.

"How was Dr. Reid captured? Was he alone?"

"Did the killer leave any message or ransom note?"

"Are any of the other agents targeted next?

"What are the chances that he'll be found alive?"

The noise had grown to be too much, and suddenly the lights were too bright. The clouds of bright white and yellow from the lights grew and encompassed Hotch's vision and he needed to sit down….needed to get away from the overwhelming sound and light. He felt like he was swaying to and fro, but couldn't be sure if he was actually doing so, and, without so much of a warning, he walked away and left the interview, leaving a gaping Emily and a new onslaught of questions that he just managed to catch before disappearing into the sitting room.

"How does Agent Hotchner feel about his disappearance?"

"Does he feel responsible?"

"What was his relationship with Dr. Reid?"

_SLAM!_

The sound of the door crashing into its frame silenced the noise, and he felt relief wash over him. He pressed his palms flat against the metal surface and took a deep breath, slowly tilting his head forward so that his forehead did the same, the cool material welcome on his fevered flesh.

Even the media blamed him for Reid's disappearance. Not as if they were wrong- he was the boss, he should have protected him- but it did nothing to abate his guilt. He couldn't imagine what Reid was going through at that moment- torture, pain, experiments- and it was all his fault.

He moved away from the door and sat down on a cushioned armchair, letting his head fall back so that the top of the chair lay just under his neck. His eyes closed, dimming out the obtrusive glare of fluorescent lighting and he let his breath become even. Perhaps it was a form of meditation, sitting in an empty, bright room with his eyes closed as he focused only on creating a steady rhythm with his breath.

Breathe in.

One, two, three, four.

Breathe out.

One, two, three, four…

Whatever it was, it worked and he felt his body and mind relax as the nausea subsided and he could think clearly and be the composed Aaron Hotchner he was known to be.

_SLAM!_

He lurched at the sudden sound of the door, reaching around his hip instinctively just as he turned around and saw a somewhat agitated Emily before him, her hands on her hips and her lips pulled into a thin, straight line.

"What the hell happened out there?" she yelled, nodding her head to the right to indicate that she meant outside where the press conference had taken place, moments before. Hotch was silent for a second, but a second was all she needed. Her stance and expression immediately softened, as her dark brown eyes turned sympathetic and she approached him. Hesitantly, she placed a hand on his shoulder, somewhat happy that he didn't shirk away.

"No one blames you, Hotch," she said.

He shook his head. "I do. And I should."

"No, you shouldn't. It's-"

"Don't be ridiculous, Emily! I'm supposed to lead this team; I'm supposed to make sure everyone is okay! If someone gets hurt doing this job, it's my fault for not preventing it."

She would've laughed had the situation not been more serious. "Hotch, if we get hurt it's because we make a living out of hunting dangerous people. And we put ourselves in the line of danger to help people because that's what we do! We didn't sign up for this job expecting safety," she tried to say, but he just shook his head again.

"We all knew, Emily. We all knew how well he fit the description, and yet we did nothing. We just let him go off and…" he stopped himself, taking another long, composing breath.

'_It's amazing how even during a mental break he can appear so in control,'_ Emily thought briefly before returning to the subject at hand. "The fact remains that he's been captured. You said it yourself, we need to work on this case as best as we can, and blaming each other or ourselves isn't going to help us get Reid back." He looked at her, an indiscernible expression in place as always.

She was right.

He did say that.

And now he needed to act that.

"Tomorrow, we're going to interview everyone on the list Garcia gave us. We'll break into teams, you and me, Rossi and JJ and Morgan and Varney," he said, and Emily smiled. She knew that if anyone could be relied on to remain calm and collected in the face of danger, it was her boss. He would make sure everyone kept their wits about them, made sure everyone focused on saving Reid, even if he himself allowed for a moment of grief, as he had just experienced. And she hoped with everything she had, that Reid would somehow know just how loved and cared for he was, despite whatever he was being subjected to.

Repressing the thought and imagery that crossed her mind in only the way a profiler could compartmentalize everything, she said, "We'll find him. We're all working our butts off and Reid is an incredibly strong person. A lot stronger than I think he receives credit for."

Hotch opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off by the door opening and Varney stepping through.

"Hey, I'm really sorry to interrupt, but we have a woman out here," he said, breathless and wide-eyed as a small, hopeful smile flitted onto his visage. "She says she thinks she knows who the UnSub is."

With that, Hotch and Emily stood simultaneously and ran from the room.

xXx

His thigh was on fire.

That was the only thing Reid could focus on when he woke up, the fuzziness from having passed out disappearing quickly as he registered the pain, biting hard on his lip to stop from crying out. He was once again chained up to the bed, his broken leg elevated and with a new bandage on the thigh, covering the gash mark. He was still dressed in hospital gowns, but these ones were clean and had not even a discoloration of a mild stain.

However, the cleanliness of his wardrobe was not at the forefront of his mind as he focused once more on his situation.

The UnSub was trying to convince him he was insane…was that what he was experimenting with? Trying to see if he could force the mind between sanity and insanity as he pleased? He shivered at the thought, not wanting to even think about what he would be put through if that was the goal. Stabbing him because he refused to believe what Andrew was saying was painful enough, and he knew that the more he denied Andrew's claims, the more pain he would feel. Cognitive reinforcement.

'_He's trying to make my mind associate sanity with pain,'_ he thought to himself as he raised his leg slightly and subconsciously began rubbing the bandaged thigh. If he wanted to avoid being beaten, he would need to convince Dr. Wright that he believed himself to be insane. But what if that was why he killed the other victims? What if he was killing them because once he made them insane, he had no more use for them? If that was the case, than he would much prefer pain to death.

But Reid couldn't help the horrible question that his mind was shouting at him.

What if Andrew succeeded, and he started to really believe he was insane?

Even though he wanted to use logic against his own question, he couldn't. He knew as well as anyone that a person can, if under the right stress and circumstances, believe themselves insane- and God knew Reid was under a lot of stress right now. In fact, he wouldn't be too surprised if the weight of the whole situation caused a real psychotic episode to occur if he remained in the Doctor's hands for too long.

He whimpered at the thought. His very fear- the thing he feared more than any UnSub he had ever seen or faced- was so close to happening. His reality could, at any minute, dissolve into insanity and he would be confronted with the thing he always dreaded, always sought to avoid- psychoses.

Without his want, his mind began to fashion scenarios of his life, the life he would live if he were to go insane.

A life in a hospital.

A life where the sun and the sky and the grass eluded him.

A life where his genius meant nothing because he was crazy, and who listens to crazy people anyway?

A life unfulfilled.

A life where his own mind lied to him every single second.

Where he couldn't trust himself and what he was seeing or hearing…

Where he believed everyone was out for him…

He cried out suddenly, the scenarios too painful to even consider. This couldn't be happening to him. How could he be placed in a situation where insanity or pain were his only options? It wasn't fair. What did he ever do to deserve this?

'_Calm down. Freaking out isn't going to help you,'_ a voice that sounded oddly like Hotchner said in his mind. As disturbing as it was to have been around the man so much that even his thoughts were sounding like him, he knew it was right. He needed to relax, he needed to think clearly.

He took a deep, calming breath that shook his entire body, his eyes closed as he began thinking rationally.

'_Don't accept what Dr. Wright says is true. He probably disposes his victims once they crack. Accept the pain- it isn't so bad, you've been through similar, Spence. Mind over matter, don't let the pain make you give in. The longer you hold out, the longer you'll live. Your team will rescue you- they're smart and reliable. They didn't need you to solve cases before, and they don't need you now,'_ he thought to himself and he instantly felt calmer. His team would help him, he knew they would. But he couldn't help but wonder how they were handling his disappearance.

No, he wasn't so silly as to wonder if they missed him, though a very large part of him hoped they did. He was wondering how close they were, if they were close at all, or even how long he had been gone for. His moments of consciousness were so far and few between that it was impossible to decipher an amount based on that alone- not to mention the constant state of sensory deprivation he was placed in. He could only recall being offered five meals, but that didn't necessarily mean he was here a day and a half- it is, after all, impossible to remember missing meals if you're not awake at the time.

The door opened and Andrew walked in, carrying the very subject of his thoughts in a tray which he placed on the desk.

"Good evening, Spencer," he said, offering him a smile as he walked over, preparing to undo the restraints. "How are you feeling? You suffered a rather nasty gash when fighting me, I'm afraid."

Reid resisted the urge to glare at him.

"Spencer? How are you feeling?" he asked as he finally released the bindings, but still held tight to his wrists as he helped pull him off the bed, supporting Reid's weight as he limped with the doctor.

"I'd be a lot better if I could see my friends," he said, letting the doctor cuff his wrists once more when he sat down in the chair. "Can you please let me see my friends?"

Andrew shook his head as he pulled the lid off the tray, revealing two hot dogs, string beans and some macaroni salad. "I'm afraid visitation rights are put on hold until you can manage proper behavior, Spencer."

Reid bit the inside of his mouth in irritation. "Look, I don't know what you're getting at, but my team will find you. They are fully qualified FBI agents who-"

"Spencer! There are no FBI agents!" he said, shaking his head sadly and Reid fought the urge to cry as all the scenarios came rushing back to him in that instant. He wasn't insane. He wasn't. Andrew was the insane one. Not him.

After a long pause in which Reid stared down at his lap, tears threatening to break free as he chewed on the inside of his mouth, Andrew handed him a fork and then stood with a great sigh. "Eat up, Spencer. I'll return in about twenty minutes."

And he left.

Reid let the tears slip down his face as he pulled on his restraints. He needed to get out. Needed to hear Morgan say he was as sane as anyone could be, needed Hotch to tell him that he shouldn't put any validity into what an UnSub says. He needed everything he couldn't have at the moment.

He sat like that for nearly ten minutes before the grumble of his stomach made itself known once more, and he reluctantly began picking at his food, too upset to truly eat.

xXx

As promised, Andrew returned ten minutes into Reid eating.

"Ah, I see you're not very hungry right now?" he asked, motioning to the tray that still had one and a half hot dog and a fair portion of the macaroni salad and string beans left. Reid didn't respond, he just continued to push the elbow macaroni noodles across his plate absentmindedly.

When Andrew realized he would not get a proper answer from Reid, he produced an individually foil wrapped pill and a small water bottle from a pocket of his lab coat. Reid swallowed as he eyed the medication, unable to keep the nervousness from his voice when he asked, "What…what's that?"

"Clozaril. Part of your new treatment. It will help with the delusions. It's very commonly used to treat such cases of schizophrenia-"

"I'm not schizophrenic," Reid said sharply.

Andrew gave him a sad, condescending smile. "Of course not, Spencer." He broke the foil and the pill fell into his palm, which he outstretched for Reid to take. "Just take this and-"

_Smack! _

The restraints had enough give for Reid to reach out and slap the doctor's hand away, promptly knocking the pill from his palm and onto the cold linoleum. Cold eyes turned to him, but he didn't look away. He bit his lip as the eyes promised a great punishment for what he had done.

Maintaining his ground however, he said, "I'm not taking any pills for something I don't have."

He could practically see the tendrils of rage coming out of Andrew and resisted the urge to back down. He wasn't insane, he wasn't going to take pills and that was that.

Roaring with anger, Andrew reached out and grabbed a large section of Reid's hair, using his other hand to quickly unfasten the restraints with the small keys. With a yelp of pain, Reid was lifted into the air, feeling like his entire scalp would've been ripped off if he continued to dangle there like that, brown curls locked in a tight fist by Dr. Wright. His legs kicked out underneath him as he reached up and dug his nails into Andrew's hand, trying to dislodge his grip from his hair while making grunts of pain and exhaustion. And then his broken leg, moving around with just as much vigor as his broken one, crashed into the chair he had previously been sitting in with a _thwack!_ and he screamed out in agony.

As his knee buckled and came up to meet his chest, Andrew dropped him to the cold floor. Thankfully, Reid's reflexes were sharp enough that he managed to roll his position before landing, keeping his already throbbing broken leg away from the collision. But now his shoulder and hip smarted painfully and he was alternating between holding his leg to him and hugging his shoulder. So much of him hurt and he didn't know what to do, where to focus his attention. Before anymore contemplation could be given, he was lifted off the floor once, two hands slipping under his armpits and pulling him up before throwing him down once more, his lower back taken over by pain.

Reid let out another cry as he attempted to stand, only to receive a sharp kick under his chin. His head snapped back and with the force of the momentum, he fell back, the breath knocked out of him.

Just as he moved to sit up, a heavy force stepped onto his belly and he gasped out. He looked up to see Andrew towering over him, his foot placed on Reid's diaphragm as he applied more and more pressure.

His breath was escaping him faster and faster and it felt like his entire chest would collapse. He tried breathing but he couldn't inhale, Andrew was applying too much weight for his lungs to expand. Sputtering, he reached up and tried to throw punches at his leg, hoping to knock his foot off, but his head was swooning from lack of oxygen and he couldn't aim probably. His fists would fall back to the floor or swing in large, swooping arcs before colliding with a loud _bang_ on the linoleum.

Andrew became nothing more than a fuzzy, unreadable shape. Blinking the tears from his eyes, he swallowed, his chest still restricted as he did the only thing he could think to do.

"Please, Andrew," he said, his voice small and gasping as what little breath he had left was pushed away with his words. He was suffocating now. No oxygen to replenish and expand his lungs, nothing to keep his blood and organs healthy. He had wasted his last breath on a plea that went unnoticed.

But slowly, Andrew raised his foot, and Reid's mouth opened wide to inhale as much of the precious oxygen as he could. In long, gulping breaths, his lungs pushed back into activity and his vision swam into a wave of colors as his brain received the proper amount of air.

He was picked up, his sore, broken body placed gingerly down on the bed. Andrew made to grab his wrists, but Reid pulled them away, holding his hands bunched together at his neck and with as much strength as his worn out muscles would allow. He didn't want to be tied down anymore. His wrists were so aching and chafed from the cuffs as it was and he just wanted to wrap his arms around his waist- a feat made impossible by the restrictive bindings.

But Andrew grabbed his wrists and pried them apart easily, putting them into the restraints once more. When Reid was back in the hospital bed, securely tied in and exhausted, Andrew leaned forward and said, "The medicine will help. But I won't give it to you just yet. Trust me, you'll come to understand why you need it."

He pushed some stray locks out of Reid's face, who flinched in response, before striding across the room and grabbing the tray of the half-eaten dinner on his way out.

Reid moaned in pain- every part of him hurt. He was sure his leg was broken even more now and that the stitches in his thigh had been reopened; not to mention the numerous new injuries he was sure to have gained.

He closed his eyes, trying to meditate once more, but the pain was inescapable. And so, with no meditation zone available, he fell into a fitful sleep.

xXx

The person who Varney had spoken of was an older woman- in her late fifties perhaps, with more gray hair than auburn pulled into a loose bun on the back of her head. Her cheeks sunk downward and deep wrinkles surrounded her dim blue eyes- void of all luster- as she bounced anxiously from one foot to the other. She was overweight, which was even more pronounced by the baggy clothes she wore which seemed to swallow her up. Yet despite her frazzled and slightly nerved appearance, she smiled cordially at Hotch and Emily as they came to her, followed by Varney.

"Hello, I'm Special Agent Aaron Hotchner," Hotch greeted as he held his hand out. She shook it loosely and detachedly as he added, "Office Varney told us that you had some information regarding a possible suspect."

She sobbed greatly, her entire face scrunching inward as she reached up and concealed her red and puffy eyes from view, her shoulders shaking with such intensity that Emily wrapped an arm around her and led her to a nearby couch.

"It's alright, Ma'am. You can take your time," she said comfortingly as she motioned for Hotch to grab a tissue box. He did so, and the woman accepted the tissues with a nod of thanks. For several minutes, Emily whispered calming words to her and she eventually regained enough of her composure to explain her suspect.

"I…I'm sorry, Agent Hotchner. But…thinking my little Philip could…could…" she bit back tears and looked to the side, swallowing as much emotion as possible. "My name is Elyse Matthews. And I…I think my son…might be the…the…"

"UnSub?" Hotch prompted, and she nodded, sniffling slightly.

"Why do you think that, Ms. Matthews?" Emily asked.

She shook her head lethargically. "He's just…he's always been a little…bizarre. I mean…oh does that make me a horrible mother?" she asked desperately and Emily cupped her face gently.

"No, it doesn't. I'm sure you've done the best you could for your son, for Philip, and if he is the one doing this, than he has made his own decisions, no fault on you. But you have to understand, this UnSub is hurting many people, and he needs to be stopped. It took a lot of bravery for you to do this, and you could be the reason many lives are saved," she cooed, and Elyse nodded solemnly.

"He went to medical school, but was kicked out. He never told me why, he always just got so offensive and angry. Now he works for the local funeral parlor, but he doesn't seem happy…"

Emily shot Hotch a look at the mention of the funeral parlor. _'Just like Reid said…'_

"Ms. Matthews, we know this was hard for you, but you did the right thing," Hotch said and she sniffled in response.

Tapping Emily on the shoulder, he indicated that he was going to go to the rest of the team and inform them of the new lead, each hoping that this could bring them to their friend.

xXx

**Author's Note:**** Longest chapter yet! Eleven pages on Microsoft Word- I must really like you guys, haha. Please review and let me hear your thoughts.**

**Chapter Ten: Never Stops (Preview)**

"What do you got on our boy Philip, Garcia?" Morgan asked as everyone sat impatiently around the table, feet tapping and pens clicking.

"A lot of weird stuff," she responded and they could practically hear the exasperation in her voice. "I found his records from medical school and this guy is so far off the straight and narrow he's doing doughnuts like there's no tomorrow."

"What did you find?" Hotch asked, anticipation welling up inside him.

"Freaky experiments with a capital F. I want you to imagine _Frankenstein, The Fly_ and _Psycho _all rolled into one unholy lovechild and you've got Matthews. Apparently, he was kicked out of his school from robbing local pet cemeteries and combining them- like a cat with the head of a rabbit and stuff like that- and then tried to regenerate them. He was discovered one night by his roommate who ratted him out. He was a semester away from his doctorate at the time of expulsion and had to be removed by campus police after responding violently to the news," she said and the team involuntarily gagged at the information.


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer:**** Criminal Minds and all its associated characters are property to CBS and no profit is being made from this story.**

**Chapter Ten: Never Stops**

'_Awareness is the enemy of sanity, for once you hear the screaming, it never stops.' –Emilie Autumn_

Reid's lip was bleeding from where he bit down, trying to stop the scream before it left his body. A long, serrated blade dragged lazily across his chest, pulling from right to left, and he struggled with himself to not scream, digging deeper into his lip. His hospital gown was cut on the shoulder seams and then pushed down to his hip so that Andrew had access to the flesh of his torso, which was now sliced and bruised. The blood staining his skin glittered in sharp contrast to his complexion, even paler than ever thought possible due to the lack of sunlight and poor health.

He was becoming dizzy- whether it was from the pain, the blood loss, or clenching his teeth so tightly around his lip he wasn't sure. All he could smell was the disgusting aroma of blood and the metallic taste filled his mouth, but still, he continued to bite down, deciding that if he did pass out, it wouldn't be the worst thing that could happen.

The knife continued to pass along his skin, burning and tearing it at the same time, and he squeezed his eyes shut, his teeth clamping tighter around his now swollen and red lip. He tried to distract himself from the pain; tried to think of something, anything, that would convey enough emotion to block it out. His response came in the form of a memory- the memory of the first time he met his team and came to the BAU.

"_Agent Hotchner, Agent Morgan, I would like to introduce you to Dr. Spencer Reid, your newest teammate," Strauss said, gesturing to the tall yet slender young man, brown hair smoothed to the side so that all the sharp angles of his face stuck out plainly. He raised a hand and ran it through the air once, before dropping it to his side as his hazel eyes shifted slightly, avoiding the amused expressions of his new coworkers._

"_You…you can't be serious, Agent Strauss. He's like what…twelve?" Morgan asked, chuckling. Reid's face fell as he shifted his weight awkwardly and slumped over, shoving his hands into his pockets._

_Strauss raised a stern eyebrow at him before regarding Reid with an appraising look. After a moment of Reid standing uncomfortably under her scrutinizing eyes, she turned to Morgan and Hotch and said, "I'd explain, but I think he'll answer all your questions the second he opens his mouth." She gave a quick, tight-lipped smiled before leaving the room, Reid casting a frightened and worried look to her back. _

_But she didn't come back to help him or make the conversation any easier, she just kept going until she disappeared and Morgan and Hotch crossed their arms over their chest expectantly, waiting for him to speak._

"_So…how old are you?" Morgan asked, his curiosity getting the better of him._

"_Twenty-three," he said quietly, his voice cracking as it often did when he felt highly uncomfortable or scared. _

_Hotch raised an eyebrow at this, as if he was calling Reid out on a bluff._

"_Twenty-three is still pretty young, especially for the BAU. How'd you get up here?" Hotch asked, unable to deny that he was equally as curious Morgan about their new young teammate. _

_Reid blinked and looked behind him. "The uh…the elevator," he answered. _

"_No, I mean…how did you get this position," Hotch clarified as Morgan chuckled beside him._

_Reid opened his mouth to form an 'o' shape before clearing his throat and saying, "I ugh…met the qualifications, I guess."_

_Morgan eyed him, looking him up and down before saying, "I could snap you in half."_

"_Ahh…academic merit," he explained, shifting his eyes over to a window in the far corner. He was practically jumping as he moved from his left foot to his right foot, and back again in an attempt to calm his anxiety about the situation. "I failed the physical exam. Ultimately, they had to make an exception for me to get in."_

"_Are you like…really smart then?" Morgan asked._

_He jerked his head to the side in a second of thought. "I personally believe it's impossible to measure someone's intelligence quantitatively as there are always unexpected variables and the standards of the test regarding the assessment as well, whether or not it's based on aptitude. But I do have an IQ of 187, an eidetic memory and can read twenty-thousand words a minute." By the time he finished his answer, Hotch and Morgan's mouths were wide open and both eyebrows raised high over the brow line. Reid swallowed nervously._

"_Of course, I'm not bragging, I was merely responding to the question you asked," he added._

"_An eidetic memory?" Hotch questioned. "Is that where you're able to remember everything you've ever seen?"_

_Reid nodded. "Ah well, yes and no. It's not so much the inability to forget as it is the ability to recall specific accounts with extreme precision. There's much debate over it, particularly in the field of neuroscience, on whether an eidetic memory could possibly exist. As of yet there's no factual evidence to support the idea that anyone could recall everything with total accuracy, but for the current definition, I do have an eidetic memory," he answered._

_Morgan and Hotch turned to each other with a look of shock, before understanding settled into Hotch's face. "Well, I guess now we know what Strauss meant," he mumbled as he sat himself down behind a desk and Morgan laughed. _

_The former street cop walked over to Reid, clapping a hand on his shoulder as he extended one out for him to shake. "Welcome to the team then, Boy Wonder. I'm Derek Morgan," he said, and Reid shook his hand with a shaking smile on his face._

Reid was pulled back into the present situation by a sharp sensation in his shoulder, brought on from the knife plunging into his flesh. He screamed as the blade tore through skin and tendon and muscle, throwing his head back with the noise. He started gasping and wiggling around the handle, his legs kicking and his hands reaching out to nothing. Andrew's face appeared inches away from his, and he felt his breath, hot and moist, against his cheek as he began to speak.

"Spencer, you must take your medication. Your delusions are getting worse. You just slipped into a fabricated memory, don't you see that! Spencer, you need this treatment! Don't you want to be sane?" he asked.

Reid's body was wracked with tears as he shook his head. "I already am."

"No, you're not!" Andrew barked, grabbing onto the railings of his bed and shaking it, causing the man inside it to be jostled around the thin mattress, moaning as the movement irritated his wounds. "You're not, Spencer! When are you going to realize that?"

"Please…stop this. I…I can't…" Reid whispered.

Andrew pulled back and rubbed the bridge of his nose as he sighed. "I'll let this go for now, Spencer. But I hope you realize soon just how dangerously unstable you are so that we can treat you," he said tiredly, pulling the keys from around his waist as he left the room.

With a breath of relief, Reid closed his eyes and thought back to the memory he had recalled only moments before. It was one of his favorite memories, even though it may have seemed so simple. It wasn't a memory of his first kiss, or solving his first case or earning a degree of achievement, as is typical for most peoples' favorite memories. But it was his most treasured because it was the day he started to feel accepted- the day he finally felt like he belonged. Being the prodigal boy he was, he never got to be around kids his own age, and never connected with the ones he was with. He always felt awkward and unsure of himself and everyone easily dismissed him as weird, quirky and nerdy.

But when he came to the team, they accepted him- not only did they accept him for who he was, but they loved him for who he was. The day he became part of the team was the day he found his home, his friends and his family. It was one of the happiest days of his life, though, at the time, he didn't know it.

And now all of it was being ripped out from under him, the existence of his family for the last several years being questioned.

He twisted in the bed, trying to get into a more comfortable position, though he could find none. His entire body was too sore for comfort to be a possibility and a single question floated through his mind: What if he's right? What if the team is fake, a fantasy? What if I'm crazy?

He shivered at the thought as he bit back a sob. No, he refused to believe it. A psychiatric doctor would not beat his patients if they did not accept reality. A psychiatric doctor would not deny his patients food, comfort or proper hygiene. This man wasn't a psychiatric doctor, he was an insane killer who wanted Reid to think that he was the sick one.

But that damned question wouldn't go away, lurking in the recesses of his mind.

'_I'm not crazy,'_ he thought to himself, over and over again hoping that the more he thought it, the more valid it would become. He wasn't crazy- his logic was too sound. This man was a contradiction to real doctors and was only trying to mess with Reid's mind.

'_Of course,'_ the cynical voice thought again, _'When people are truly delusional, don't they twist their logic to justify their actions? Couldn't it be possible that I'm just distorting facts and logistics so as to hold on to the world I've created?'_

His eyes widened.

He didn't create any world.

He was perfectly sane.

But part of him was still playing those two words over and over again, like a broken record:

_What if?_

xXx

"If you don't mind me asking, Agent Hotchner, could you tell me a little more about Dr. Reid," Varney asked from his seat, filling out some paperwork regarding the case. He had been aware that the young man was a genius, but aside from that, he didn't know much else. He was curious about this FBI agent whose disappearance had single-handedly destroyed the entire team's functioning capability, and wondered if they were all simply overprotective of the youngest member, or if they all treated each other with the same amount of worry.

Hotch looked up at him, a stern look on his face- but that, as Varney was realizing, did not mean that he was angry or upset. It simply meant he saw no reason to smile. The group really was a bizarre conglomerate of the most diverse minds he had ever seen, that was for sure.

As the FBI agent remained silent, Varney quickly added, "It's just…I still feel really guilty about it all. I told him to go there. My wife…she loves to read out there and so I just thought he might like it, too."

"You didn't know, Varney. You couldn't have," he answered.

Varney shrugged. "I know, but still…I feel like I should've, you know? Like I should have been able to see through time and know that he was in danger," he mumbled, but Hotch still heard it.

"You're not the only one who feels that way," he said, his voice not indicating exactly who else shared similar feelings. Then, Hotch added, "Reid, as you know, is an absolute genius. Our expert on…well, everything. But a lot of people forgot that sometimes- they started only seeing him as an encyclopedia."

Varney raised an eyebrow. "And what did you see him as?" he asked quietly.

A moment of hesitancy followed before he was given an answer. "I saw him as a kid, who knew more than I ever could. A kid who, at first, relied too heavily on statistics and facts. But more importantly, I saw a magician. I saw someone who wanted to make a difference in the world before they even knew how much they'd need to sacrifice. I saw someone who, believe it or not, can be really funny and can really make you laugh, while at the same time making you shake your head at how…absolutely socially inept he was. I saw someone who wanted desperately to belong but didn't know how to." He paused for a second, as if debating on whether or not to say something. Then, with a sigh, he added, "And I saw someone who gave so much, and expected very little in return. Someone who I wish was here, so I could at least remind him how much he means to the team and…" he trailed off, his eyes glazing over as he looked down at the paperwork in front of him.

Varney understand nonetheless and nodded, a small smile on his lips. "Don't worry. I'm sure you'll be able to tell him soon enough once we get to interview this Philip Matthews." Hotch nodded, but it didn't quite seem like he fully registered what was said.

"And besides," the police officer added as he stood to leave, giving Hotch a strong smile. "He has six people working nonstop to find him. I'm sure the last thing he needs is reminding of how much he means to you."

"Do you think," Hotch began, Varney stopping in the doorway to turn to him. "Do you think he knows that we see him as a personal Almanac?"

Varney swallowed as he looked down at the floor, his hands gripping the cold, metal framing. "I'm not sure. But once you find him, be sure to let him know." And he left.

xXx

"What do you got on our boy Philip, Garcia?" Morgan asked as everyone sat impatiently around the table, feet tapping and pens clicking.

"A lot of weird stuff," she responded and they could practically hear the exasperation in her voice. "I found his records from medical school and this guy is so far off the straight and narrow he's doing doughnuts like there's no tomorrow."

"What did you find?" Hotch asked, anticipation welling up inside him.

"Freaky experiments with a capital F. I want you to imagine _Frankenstein, The Fly_ and _Psycho _all rolled into one unholy lovechild and you've got Matthews. Apparently, he was kicked out of his school from robbing local pet cemeteries and combining them- like a cat with the head of a rabbit and stuff like that- and then tried to regenerate them. He was discovered one night by his roommate who ratted him out. He was a semester away from his doctorate at the time of expulsion and had to be removed by campus police after responding violently to the news," she said and the team involuntarily gagged at the information.

"He was trying to create new animals from dead remains?" JJ asked, her nose crinkled as she thought of what a cat-rabbit would look like.

Garcia gave a dry laugh. "That's what it looks like. And he matches Reid's profile on all other accounts. I was looking over some newspaper articles about it and his classmates said the usual _'I never would have expected this.' 'He seemed like such a nice person.'_ You know the drill. No one ever suspects the person who actually does it." The team nearly snorted at the truthfulness of all this- rarely ever did they find someone whose neighbors and friends actually thought that they could be capable of such a thing. Yet his own mother did…

Morgan thanked Garcia and then hung up, with the promise to inform her of any new information as Rossi hummed in though, tapping his chin as he asked, "So, why does he seem suspicious now? If he was able to maintain a normal front before, why can't he now?"

"Maybe it's the stress of the situation. Robbing animal graves and performing tests on them isn't illegal," JJ suggested, shrugging her shoulders. "But now that he's doing something on a higher caliber of risk, he's more aware of the consequences and he can't keep his cool."

"Or," Hotch said, pausing briefly before expanding on his idea. "Or maybe there's something about Reid that's putting him over edge." When he received several questioning looks and confused expressions, he added, "Morgan said it himself. Reid had something about him that our UnSub couldn't resist, even if it brought him closer to us. Maybe Reid…" He stopped, swallowing slightly as he took a second to detach himself once more. "Maybe Reid's responding differently to these experiments, and he's becoming less careful now."

Rossi chewed on the inside of his cheeks. "He's too focused on the new path he's taken in his experiments. He's either…excited because it's working better and it's throwing him off, or he's frustrated because it's going worse and throwing him off."

"What were the differences Garcia found between Reid and the others?" JJ asked and Morgan snatched a printed list that topped a stack of papers.

He read them off slowly and clearly, and when he finished, Emily said, "Well, I think we can gross off the hobbies one. And blood type, as well as occupational interests- I can't imagine that that would change the outcome too much."

"So, that leaves his intelligence and his medical history," Morgan said with a nod, a smile appearing as he finally felt like they were going somewhere in the case.

Varney was the one who spoke up now, his voice small and shaking as he felt so inexperienced compared to these profilers, but nonetheless he said, "Well, it would be medical history right? Maybe Dr. Reid has a predisposition for a disease that's affecting the course it takes. Like…diabetes or a heart disease or…"

"Schizophrenia," Rossi muttered, his eyes set on the wood design of the table in front of him. The silence that followed was enough to voice the agreement of every person on the team.

Suddenly, Hotch stood up and addressed everyone. "Let's get started on our suspects. Rossi, JJ, Morgan," he said, nodding to each in turn. "You'll go to our primary suspect's house and interview him. Try to get a warrant before you do though- with his past and mother's testimony we might be able to get one for at least Reasonable Suspicion." They nodded and stood as well, leaving seconds later to do as they were told. Hotch then turned to the rest of the team. "We'll go visit the people on the list we had Garcia create before, the one she made using Reid's profile. We may be able to find something or find a new suspect if Matthews turns out to be the wrong guy."

With a chorus of agreements, they left as well, starting on their own manhunt.

xXx

**Author's Note:** Oh, the team is getting closer! Let me know what you think! IMPORTANT NOTE!- According to my outline, this story is half-way done! Yay! *opens a bottle of champagne*

**Chapter Eleven: An Appropriate Response (Preview)**

"No," Reid whispered in horror, feeling his entire body tense and quiver. "No! No! NONONONONO!"

He was screaming, his throat burning with the intensity of his shouts as he began pulling at his restraints, kicking everything he could with his damaged legs and bloody feet. If it hurt, he couldn't feel it. His mind was in overdrive as he continued screaming, lifting his body up as high off the mattress as he could before he felt the tug of the cuffs pulling him down.

He needed to get out.

He needed to escape.


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer:** **Criminal Minds and all its associated characters are property to CBS and no profit is being made from this story.**

**Chapter Eleven: An Appropriate Response**

'_It is sometimes an appropriate response to reality to go insane.' –Philip K. Dick_

"STOP! Please!" Reid begged as he felt the knife slide deeply along his skin once more in jagged, choppy cuts. Blood swam through the torn flesh and pooled, trickling over the curvature of his calves. The slashes burned as Andrew continued his assaults with the saw-toothed blade, making Reid twitch involuntarily and pull his legs into him, only to have a hand wrap around his ankle and pull it back.

"Just relax, Spencer," he said, too calmly as he took the knife and pressed it into the natural creases of the soles of his feet, tracing the lines and leaving behind a trail of blood.

He couldn't relax though, not with the searing pain occurring in such a sensitive area. But his ankle was still held in place, so all he could do was jerk his toes and legs around, gasping at the pain as he tried to pull his foot back, away from the knife. It wouldn't budge from its vice-like grip and he groaned in pain as he felt his foot become soaked with tacky blood.

After several minutes in which Andrew switched to the other foot and did the same, he retracted his knife and placed it with a _clink_ on a small, metal table. Blood slid down the once silver blade and onto the surface of the table, creating small, thin layers of the bodily fluid which looked more copper than crimson when mixed with the metallic.

The heavy footfalls began again, walking around the bed until they approached Reid and he looked up at Andrew with a mixture of pain and anger. He was well aware of the routine by now, and knew what was coming next. Fortunately, it wouldn't be any more physical pain and he finally allowed his body to relax as he rolled his head lazily to the side, watching as Andrew sat down in a chair beside him.

"Now, what is your name?"

"Spencer Reid."

"Age?"

"Twenty-six."

"What do you do for a living?"

A long pause followed before he answered.

"I am a special agent for the BAU in Quantico. I specialize in geographical profiling and pattern solving."

He was aware of how flat and monotone his voice sounded, and the cynical part of his brain returned once more as he thought _'Inappropriate affect, ambivalence...Why Spencer, I do believe you're experiencing two of Bleuler's four A's of Schizophrenia.'_

He bit his lip. No, he couldn't think like that. It was just a coincidence. Of course he was ambivalent- he was being tortured psychologically by a serial killer. Of course he had an inappropriate affect- there is only so much pain and torture one can bear before they become incapable of adding emotion to conversations. He was taken away from his self-assurances by Andrew, who had begun speaking once more.

"When will you accept this, Spencer?" he asked.

Reid looked at him, his lip twitching slightly. "Please...just let me go," he begged.

"I can't. Not until you're healthy," Andrew said, standing up to leave but was stopped by Reid shakily grasping the sleeve of his coat, his fingers entwining in the white fabric. Andrew looked back at him, raising an eyebrow in question.

"Please..." Reid asked again.

Before Reid even had a second to register what was happening, Andrew ripped his hand back, forcefully knocking Reid's fingers away before colliding his fist hard into the left side of his side. Reid's head whipped back, and he gasped at the sudden throb of pain, his eyes squeezing shut. He vaguely heard footsteps walk away from him, Andrew leaving the room, as he squeezed his body as far in as he could and turned to the side, a high-pitched hum filling his head.

His entire skull felt fuzzy, like it was filled cotton, and the dizziness caused by losing blood to so many wounds was settling in. As his body, though relatively stagnant, seemed to rock and be tossed around, he heard a voice, cold and hoarse from misuse. His body stilled instantly and his breath got caught in his throat. A voice? But Andrew had left. So who was it who spoke?

"Spencer, turn around."

There it was again. It was so clear in the annunciation despite the chorus of echoes that followed it and he was beginning to wonder when the Doctor had returned and why he didn't hear the door open. Regardless, he wasn't going to listen. He didn't want to have to face him so soon and if he had to pretend to be unconscious, so be it.

He remained unmoving, and for several long moments, he thought that Andrew had left. But then another voice, one so familiar it caused of flood of memories to overcome him, filled the room.

"Spencer!" It shouted, and Reid jumped up, his heart pounding and his ears ringing. He knew that voice. He also knew it was impossible to hear that voice from his current situation. His father wasn't even in the same state as him- so how did he hear his trademark yell?

Looking around the room, hazel eyes wide with fear, he saw it was completely empty. His heartbeat thumped erratically, his pupils became dilated and his throat closed as his face lost any colored it still had. The realization that he was grasping the bed sheets so forcefully that his knuckles shook did nothing to make him loosen his grip and he swallowed harshly. His blood was boiling as understanding coursed through him.

He had heard a noise that had no outward source.

His face shook and fell inward as an entirely new fear overcame him. Air seemed impossible to find and he felt his chest heave, trying to consume all the oxygen he could before it completely disappeared.

A small, strangled cry escaped his throat before he buried his face in his hands, digging his nails painfully into the skin as his shoulders shook. He had an auditory hallucination…he was hearing things…

Without his knowledge, his body began to rock almost of its own accord as the panic kept rising. This couldn't be happening…this wasn't real…

'_I'm not insane. I'm not. It's just a minor psychotic break caused from stress. Nothing permanent. Just an episode…an episode means it _will _end at some point,'_ he thought to himself, biting his cheeks with such ferocity that his mouth was immediately filled with blood. But he didn't care. What was one more injury when he was already suffering from a thousand others? If anything, the new pain was welcomed- if he focused on the stinging sensation of his cheeks, he couldn't focus on the noise he had heard.

'_Just a small, temporary incident,'_ he reminded himself.

"Spencer, look at me!"

Whipping his head upward to the source of the noise, he found that the room was no longer empty. A scream got caught in his throat as he had a disturbing thought- he wanted nothing more than for Andrew to be the one in the room, calling out to him. But instead, the figure of his father, not aged at all since he last saw him sixteen years ago, stood in the center, directly before him.

Short, brown hair, receding backwards and thinning in some places, sat on the top of his head as hard, green eyes, cold and flat, glared at him. Frown lines framed his mouth, which was pulled into a tight, angry sneer as he cracked his knuckles in a show of intimidation. William Reid wore a clean, white pressed collared shirt below a red and black tie, with tan slacks and black, polished shoes.

Had Reid not been so frightened by this effigy, he would've noticed that this outfit was the last outfit he had seen his father in, complete with the scratched silver tie clip. But his mind was too startled by this creation- this creation that was blurred around the edges and seemed to glow with a dark golden hue- that could not possibly be there.

"No," Reid whispered in horror, feeling his entire body tense and quiver. "No! No! NONONONONO!"

He was screaming, his throat burning with the intensity of his shouts as he began pulling at his restraints, kicking everything he could with his damaged legs and bloody feet. If it hurt, he couldn't feel it. His mind was in overdrive as he continued screaming, lifting his body up as high off the mattress as he could before he felt the tug of the cuffs pulling him down.

He needed to get out.

He needed to escape.

He couldn't lie there and accept the fact that his reality- whether through genetics or torture- was crashing down around him, dissolving into a pile of schizophrenic rubble. He needed out. He couldn't breathe. Desperate screams and yells filled the room, bouncing around the walls as he felt his chest heave with what was a full-blown panic attack.

He needed out.

He needed out.

Out.

Out.

Out.

The bed thrashed against the wall with his almost deranged motions, scuffing the floor as it made painful shrieks of protest. His actions only stopped when the image of his father took life again and began screaming along with Reid, his voice deep and filled with loathing as opposed to Spencer's high and desperate cries of fears-come-true.

"Shut up! You whiny little bitch!"

He stiffened at the words and the voice saying them, his lower lip trembling as he sobbed quietly. No…

"Do you ever shut up?"

Reid shook his head, tears streaming down his pale cheeks. "You're not real…you're not real…" he murmured to himself, but that didn't do him any comfort. While he was glad that the man standing before him was not his real father, whom he had had a tumultuous childhood with, he was fearful of the same fact, as it meant only one thing.

He looked up just in time to see his father approach him, his feet barely moving as he seemed to glide across the floor, and rear a hand back, swinging it down as he punched him. But the instant his fist came into contact with skin, he vanished, and the room was just as dark, cold and empty as it was before his presence.

"NO!" Reid shouted, slumping forward as he hung his head, knotted tendrils of brown curls curtaining off his face. His entire body was trembling and he began screaming once more, stopping only when he felt the sting of a needle in his upper arm. The last thing he saw before falling into a deep sleep was Andrew's concerned face looming above him.

xXx

The room that the Doctor had Reid locked in was in the basement, with soundproofing so excellent that nothing could be heard- from inside or outside- unless one was five feet away from the door. And so it wasn't until Andrew was on his way to bandage Reid up that he heard it- terrifying screams that made his own throat feel scratchy and sore. He frantically began searching for his key, wondering what in the world could've riled him up so much.

'_I don't think I hurt him enough for this…and he was screaming less when I was actually torturing him,'_ he thought, finding the proper key and jamming it into the padlock, throwing the door open and gasping at what he saw.

Reid, pale and smeared with so much of his own blood his skin looked more red than white, was throwing his body off of the bed, snapping back to the mattress with the restraints. His legs kicked and pedaled in the air as his chest flew up again, his wrists pulling against the metal cuffs which had caused a cut in the sensitive area and were now covered in blood as well. His mouth was open wide in and glistening tears fell down his cheeks in rapid succession. A scream- an awful scream that seemed more fitting for a wounded animal- was forced through his diaphragm and out of his mouth, bouncing off the walls.

"NO! NO! NO! NO!" he shouted, flinging his body in every direction he could only to flop back down and start all over again.

The sight was horrifying and caused Andrew to stand in the threshold, bag of medical supplies under his arm as his mouth hung open in paralyzed shock. What was going on? What had happened? As the shouts became more fevered and the blood flowed more profusely from his cut wrists, he leapt back into action, running towards his patient so fast it looked more like he teleported instead.

When he stood beside the bed, watching the man up close, he grabbed a needle and grabbed one of Reid's hands, pulling it close and tight. He pushed the syringe down into his upper arm, injecting a medicine that put Reid to sleep instantaneously, but not before he shot the doctor a look of pure and unadulterated fear.

xXx

Morgan raised a fist and rapped it against the oak door as he stood alongside Rossi and JJ, all three anxious about meeting the man who could potentially lead them to their friend. But after a second of receiving no answer, they shared a glance among them as Morgan knocked again, harder and longer than before.

"Mr. Matthews? Open up, we need to speak to you!" he bellowed and, seconds later, the door creaked open to reveal a short and rotund man in his early thirties, smiling nervously.

"Sorry about the wait. I was in the kitchen," he said with a shrug, his blue eyes watery as he looked all three agents up and down. "Is there ugh…anything I can help you with?" he asked, turning his focus to Morgan who was the first to speak.

"We're here with the FBI and we would like to ask you a couple of questions," he responded, his tone clipped and harsh.

Matthews opened his mouth, then closed it as he nodded and stepped aside, allowing the agents room to walk through. "Okay. But I don't know if there's much I can help you with, officers," he said, smiling sadly as he walked them to a simple living room. The room, small and cluttered, contained only one large couch and an equally large television set, forcing Rossi, Morgan and JJ to stand as they motioned for the man to sit down. Tentatively, he did so and he intertwined his fingers as he looked up expectantly.

"So, um…what exactly is this about?"

"We're the agents investigating the serial killings that have been occurring here for the last year," Rossi began and Matthews nodded in understanding.

"Oh yeah, I heard about that. Didn't he like…kidnap that one FBI agent?" he asked, but Rossi continued, ignoring him.

"Last night, we held a press conference where we released the profile of the killer and a concerned citizen had reported you." Matthews leaned back, his eyebrows raised as he digested what he was just told.

"I…I see," he said, looking down at his fingers.

"We just need to ask you a few simple questions, Mr. Matthews," JJ began, forcing a professional smile to grace her features.

But he frowned, shaking his head. "I'm afraid that won't be necessary."

Morgan raised a brow. "And why is that?"

Matthews looked up at him, and then stood, pacing around the small room, hands behind his back as he began to speak. "You know, we're a lot the same- you three and I. We all share a desire to help people. I've always wanted to help people- that's why I went to medical school. And you three want to help people too- that's why you risk your lives every day chasing down criminals." His voice sounded flat and distant, causing Morgan to slowly reach for his gun as Rossi take lead of the conversation.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Matthews, but we really need to return to the questions. I don't see how this is relevant-"

"Because we have one thing that's very different about us," Matthews said, turning to them with a leering smile. "And it's a big difference. It's not our uniforms, or our personalities or our intellects. That's all circumstantial- it doesn't matter in the grand scheme of things. No, you see, the difference, the big one that puts all of us into an entirely new playing field is that I…" He paused here, sitting back down on the couch as he reclined, his arms draped over the backboard. He smiled at the anticipatory looks he received as he said, "The difference is that I know where Spencer Reid is, and you don't."

xXx

**Author's Note:** **I am just the worst type of person, what with that cliffhanger and all. Anyway, the plot thickens! Who is Matthews and why does he know? Will Reid survive his psychotic break? Will they find him in time? Will the readers kill me for doing this Reid? Review me your thoughts, opinions and suggestions. Thanks again to all you loyal reviewers, favoriters and alerters. You're the motivation that keeps this story going.**

**Chapter Twelve: The Edge (Preview)**

"Yes, of course we care about him," Morgan answered tersely, wanting nothing more than to punch this man and hear a satisfying crack of bones.

"Then why did you let me capture him in the first place?"

"You son of a bitch!" Morgan shouted, dropping his gun as he went to jump on the man, only to be held back by Rossi. He placed a strong hand on his elbow and pulled him back, keeping his grip on him even as he was pulled by his side and an extra several feet away from Matthews. Morgan was shaking with rage and he nearly twitched with the want to attack, but this only made the man smile wider, chuckling slightly.

"We answered your question. Where is Spencer?" Rossi asked, loosening his grip on Morgan as he focused on aiming his gun.

"Hell," he answered with a knowing smirk.


	12. Chapter 12

**Disclaimer:** **Criminal Minds and all its associated characters are property to CBS and no profit is being made from this story.**

**WARNING:** **This chapter contains scenes of rape. The section of the story that features this will be separated with a:**

**-M-**

**Feel free to skip over this section as the story will still continue smoothly.**

**Chapter Twelve: The Edge**

'_The Edge; there is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over.' –Hunter S. Thompson_

The air in the room was thick and heavy with Matthews's confession, and Morgan was the one to react first. He pulled out his gun, aiming it expertly as he cocked his head to the side, preparing to pull the trigger if necessary.

"Where is he?" he asked, overcome with fury that only continued to grow when Matthews remained smiling, still leisurely sitting on the couch.

"And why should I tell you?"

"Because if you tell us where he is we can make sure you get life without parole instead of the death sentence," Rossi said, his own gun aimed as he spoke coldly and with obvious contempt.

Matthews snorted. "If I never told you where Spencer was- only that he has someone to make sure he stays alive- you'll never give me the death sentence. No one would want to lose the only person who has information regarding a kidnapped FBI agent. Unless," he paused, and his smile fell as he looked at the group before him, three guns pointed his way. "Unless, you really don't care about Spencer and only want me captured. Then I suppose I could be given the death sentence. Do you care about Spencer?"

"Where is he?" Morgan asked again.

"Do you care about him?"

"Where. Is. He?"

"Do you. Care. About. Him?"

Morgan pointed his gun towards the floor and fired, sending a bullet into the old, scuffed up wood before aiming it back at Matthews, who barely even flinched. "Tell me where he is?"

Matthews sighed and took on a look of heavy consideration. Then, after much internal debate, said, "I will tell you where he is if you answer my question. Now, do you care about Spencer?"

The team hesitated a moment, but the concession had to be made in order to get him to speak.

"Yes, of course we care about him," Morgan answered tersely, wanting nothing more than to punch this man and hear a satisfying crack of bones.

"Then why did you let me capture him in the first place?"

"You son of a bitch!" Morgan shouted, dropping his gun as he went to jump on the man, only to be held back by Rossi. He placed a strong hand on his elbow and pulled him back, keeping his grip on him even as he was pulled by his side and an extra several feet away from Matthews. Morgan was shaking with rage and he nearly twitched with the want to attack, but this only made the man smile wider, chuckling slightly.

"We answered your question. Where is Spencer?" Rossi asked, loosening his grip on Morgan as he focused on aiming his gun.

"Hell," he answered with a knowing smirk.

"Stand up, Mr. Matthews. We're taking you into custody," Rossi said, letting go of Morgan and motioning to him to cuff Matthews. With a nod, Morgan approached the man, silver cuff dangling from his finger as he told him to turn around.

Smiling, he obliged, even pulling his hands behind his back as Morgan roughly began placing the cuffs on him.

"You have the right to remain silent," Rossi began reciting, but he sneered.

"Please, Agent. I know my Miranda Rights," he answered as he was suddenly pushed along by Morgan. The agent dragged the man out the door and across the lawn, practically throwing him in the car as Rossi called Hotch.

He said only one sentence to him before closing his phone and getting in the car with his team and the UnSub, preparing to drive back to the station. The phrase "He's our guy," was never said as triumphantly as it was then.

Xxx

"Did he say anything?" Hotch asked, running into the small room that sat behind the one-way window of the interrogation room, Varney and Emily close behind him.

Rossi frowned and shook his head. "Other than admitting that he did know where Reid was and that he captured him, nothing. We've been trying to get him to speak since we got him here," he said, shrugging his shoulders dejectedly. Hotch looked through the window, eyeing the man who had his youngest subordinate hidden away.

Dark auburn hair, thinning on the top, framed his round face and blue eyes were set under his sloped brow. His lips were thin and his nose was long and pointed, with large, oversized nostrils flanking it. Something about the man made him uneasy, though he wasn't sure if it was the man himself or the knowledge of what he had done and who he had taken. Still, he turned to Rossi and said, "I'll try speaking to him."

"Good luck," Rossi said with a small smile.

Hotch opened the door, drawing the attention of the handcuffed man, who smiled at his presence. Ignoring the taunting grin, he closed the door and sat in front of him, his hands folded and placed on the table between them.

"Do you care about Spencer Reid, too?" he asked.

"Where is he?"

Matthews frowned. "What is with you FBI agents and ignoring questions the moment they focus on that little brat? First the press conference and then now," he muttered. When Hotch said nothing, he continued. "You know, there is something very special about him though, I won't deny that. I especially like the way he screams." Suddenly, Matthews threw himself back in the chair, opening his mouth wide as he feigned an ear-splittingly high scream that cracked and broke every so often as he flailed his cuffed hands around. The scream faded into deep chuckles, which then turned into a full-belly laugh.

When he finally settled down, he looked at Hotch, an eyebrow quirked. "That's how he screams, you know. All high and girly, like he hasn't even hit puberty yet." He waited for a response- for the agent before him to begin yelling at him, threatening him like the others had. But he was the picture of calm. Not even his lip twitched as he listened to Matthews. It was frustrating that he was so stoic and so, taking it as a challenge, he tried again.

"But the best- better even than his screams- is the way he squirms." He leaned forward now, as though he were sharing with the FBI agent a secret of great worth as he added, "Did you know, he hates knives the most. When you try to fight him- physically, with your own hands and feet- he fights back. If he sees a gun, he gets frightened but remains calm. But if you take a knife, and trail it just so over his skin, he screams the loudest. You can see all the fear he has and he doesn't even try to seem strong when he struggles to get away from it. He begs, too, just like this."

He fell back again in his chair as he began imitating Reid, fighting helplessly against invisible restraints as he screamed in a pitiful, whiny voice, "No! Stop! Please! Just stop! No!" The chuckling started again, but ended when he noticed that Hotch finally began to speak.

"You need to tell us where Reid is," he said, causing Matthews to smile wryly.

"Oh? And why is that?"

"Because we can try to get you a less severe sentence."

"No thanks. Your partner already offered me that and I decided that dying is better than living in a prison."

"We'll find out anyway. We will search your house and everything with your name attached to it and we will find him. You could spare us the trouble and yourself the punishment if you tell us where he is right now."

"Let's make it a game then. Let's see how long it takes for you to find out. If Spencer is still alive by the time you find him, you win. If not…" He trailed off, letting another smile pull his lips upward. Still no reaction from his interrogation officer, and he was starting to get angry.

Before he could begin taunting him even more, Hotch asked, "What are you trying to do?"

Matthews blinked in confusion. "What?"

"Your experiments. What are you trying to do anyway?"

He considered the question for a moment before asking, "You want me to tell you what I plan on doing to Spencer?"

Hotch nodded. "Yes, exactly."

Matthews leaned forward, smiling as he whispered to Hotch, "I plan on breaking him."

xXx

The haze caused by whatever drug Reid had been given quickly disappeared as he felt a hot, burning sensation underneath his feet. With a yelp, he opened his eyes and tried to pull his foot back, but his ankles were held tightly in silver restraints that matched the ones around his wrists. Andrew stood by his feet, holding a small blowtorch up against the heel of his right foot, the tip of the inner blue flame licking his skin. Despite knowing that his legs were hopelessly shackled down, he still struggled to pull them away from the fire, screaming in anguish as Andrew looked up at him, as if surprised that he was awake.

"Stop!" he begged and much to his shock, Andrew listened and turned off the blowtorch, setting it aside. He walked over to him then, scrutinizing him quietly as Reid shook from the lingering pain.

"What happened last night?"

Reid furrowed his brow. Last night? He bit his lip in thought as piece by piece he recalled what exactly had happened before he fell asleep. The knife…he was being cut by a knife all over the place. And then…then Andrew left after punching him and…he heard something…

He gasped as realization flooded him. He had hallucinated. He had heard voices and seen an image of his father, yelling at him. His lip quivered as the tears started anew.

This wasn't happening.

This couldn't be happening.

He wasn't insane.

It was just a psychotic break, nothing more.

He was forced from his thoughts when he heard Andrew, voice firm and angry, as he asked, "What happened last night?" After a second of recollection, he remembered how he felt the pinch of a needle and saw the doctor standing over him just before he fell asleep. He must've heard him screaming and now that he was awake, he wanted answers. But he couldn't tell him. He was almost positive that Andrew disposed of his patients once he 'broke' them and he would not give in. He would not tell Andrew that he had been screaming and struggling because his fear was slowly coming true and because his mind was reaching the breaking point.

"I had a nightmare," he lied, averting eye contact.

"A nightmare?"

"Yes."

"What happened in it?"

Reid swallowed, as he thought for a moment on a plausible lie. "I…had a nightmare that I was working a case and had to watch all my teammates…had to watch them die." The instant Andrew's eyes narrowed and turned harshly to him he realized his mistake.

"There are no teammates, Spencer. You are not an FBI agent. You do not work cases. You are a psychiatric patient suffering from paranoid schizophrenia," he said slowly as if speaking to a child and Reid began shaking, his body rocking back and forth.

"No, you're lying," he whispered. He barely flinched when he felt a hard punch come to his mid-section, so used to the abuse by not that it was predictable.

"Spencer…" he started, but Reid cut him off.

"Just…just leave me alone…" his voice sounded so soft, so defeated that Andrew stepped back, a fretful look passing his features. Whenever Reid spoke, it was always with the same emotion. Fear, anger and determination. It was never this…never this hopeless. He cocked his head to the side, wondering if perhaps he had taken his patient too far and that if he continued, his results would only be the same as all the others. Deciding that perhaps he should back of on young Spencer Reid, just this once, he produced a foil wrapped pill- the Clozaril- and a small water bottle from his pocket once more.

He left the items beside Reid before sighing heavily and walking off, closing the door behind him.

Reid lay motionless for minutes after that, his body sore and throbbing as he sunk into the mattress, greasy curls covering his face as he stared blankly at the pill. He had refused to take it before, not wanting treatment for a condition he didn't possess. But now…now he wasn't so sure.

Hesitantly, he reached out, his fingers brushing against the cold bottle as he thought his options over. If he took the pill, nothing bad would happen. It would just help alleviate his…his _symptoms_. And even though he didn't want to take it and admit that he needed it, he wasn't sure if he could suffer through another hallucination.

Slowly, he grabbed the pill and used his thumb to break through the foil, letting the pill fall into his cupped fingers. He turned it over slightly, examining it. Then he brought it to his lips, wetting them slightly. '_I'm not taking it because I'm insane. I'm taking it to make me feel more sane,'_ he reminded himself before placing it onto his tongue and swallowing it, washing it down with a large gulp of water.

xXx

There were voices surrounding him again and he groaned softly as he buried his face in the pillow, trying to fall back to sleep. The pill didn't work, it seemed, and tears pricked at his eyes. He wanted to scream, wanted to punch something, wanted to attack Andrew. But more importantly, he wanted to go back to his team. He wanted to be reminded that he was sane and that this was just a momentary, stress induced psychoses.

He tried to block the voices out, but they were too close, too solid…Wait…solid? The last time he had heard voices it sounded airy and unattached to anything. But these words- coming from two people he realized, were real and were truly surrounding him.

Straining to try to hear anything without alerting the visitors to his conscious state, he rolled over slightly so that the pillow couldn't muffle the sounds.

"Here, put this over his eyes first."

"Why? It's not like it will matter…"

"Just do it."

The second voice sighed. "Fine, fine."

He immediately recognized Andrew speaking, despite the fog of the Clozaril that still sat in his mind. The second voice however could not be distinguished. It sounded familiar, but not at the same time, as though the last time he had heard it was years and years ago.

As he wracked his brain to try and find the face that matched the voice, his head was pulled back by a tight fist grasping his hand and a blindfold was pulled tightly across his line of sight, shrouding the world in darkness. The fabric slipped down his nose slightly, but was then pulled back up as it was tied tightly- too tightly- around his head. He whimpered at the tightness it created as new fear settled into him.

Andrew had never blindfolded him- so why did he suddenly decide that now it was an appropriate action? And more importantly, he had never had anyone visit him aside from Andrew. So who was it who was with him now? Had there been two UnSubs all along, much like he had first speculated?

The restraints on his wrists were released but calloused hands continued to hold onto him, pulling his hands high above his head. He struggled against the hands, feeling even more vulnerable now that he could no longer see anything. But his battered form provided very little fight and soon, he was flipped over, lying down on his stomach for the first time sense he was taken hostage.

"What...what are you doing?" he asked, confused and frightened by this sudden change in routine. As much as he hated the the abuse and the beatings, he was at least predictable and something he could become settled in a pattern with. But this...this was just so different.

When no answer came, he asked again. "What are you doing?" His wrists were cuffed back into the restraints, which had been moved so as to have him stand on his hands and knees, sinking into the thin mattress. As he opened his mouth to ask the question once more, the answer became clear when he felt a dip in the mattress.

**-M-**

The coroner reports had said something that he had momentarily overlooked. Until now. All the victims were sodomized. Fear ran through him as he felt his heart beat faster than he had ever thought possible. Blood rushed through his body, muffling the sounds around him as all he became capable of hearing was its roar. He struggled against the restraints, unable to kick as it would throw off his balance.

His panic only continued to rise when he felt hands grip onto his hips, grabbing the fabric of his hospital gown and slowly starting to pull it up. "NO!" he screamed, pulling his pelvis downward, slipping down on the sheets as he fell, groaning in pain as he broken leg throbbed. The person behind him grunted in frustration and fell down on top of him, straddling his hips and Reid's struggles became more frantic.

"No! Please don't!" he cried, trying to slide out from underneath the man's weight. But his body was too weak, and the man was too heavy. He continued to fight though, becoming more frantic when he felt the tell-tale bulge against his lower back. The chains of his restraints clinked and clanked loudly as he grunted with the exertion of his struggle. The hands on his hips returned and he was pulled back into the same position, on his hands and knees, his legs spread. The hands gripped the thin material of his hospital gown and, before Reid could react, shoved it up to his chest, leaving his entire backside exposed.

He tried to move away but his hips were held in place by one hand, the man placing his entire weight into it to pin him down. He slowed in his attempt to break free, panting heavily and whimpering as his body whined in protest to his movements. He hurt so much...

It was sound of a zipper that sent him into action once more.

"No! No! No!" he started shouting, his throat quickly become raw as he tried to move forward, away from the man. But a second hand grabbed onto his hips and pulled him closer, holding him in place. The sound of the restraints against the metal headboard become painful now, ringing harshly around the room as Reid began pulling with such force he felt blood trickle down his wrists. And when he felt the soft, fleshy tip against his opening, he used all his strength to move away. But the hands on his hips just pushed him back, allowing the man to enter him at the same time in a painful thrust.

Reid tossed his head back as he screamed, his entire body feeling like it was being split in half. He tried to move away, tried to escape, but every time he did so he was just pushed back down in an agonizing thrust. Tears filled his lower lids and dampened the blindfold as he continued to yell, pulling on the restraints.

The room was filled with Reid shouting his protests, the man grunting behind him, and the cuffs colliding with the metal bars.

_Clink._

_Clank._

_Clink._

_Clank._

The sound was rhythmic with the thrusts, and Reid wanted to stop fighting just to stop the sound. But he didn't. He kept going despite the painful, tearing feeling behind him. He kept screaming despite the obvious ignorance towards his pleas.

"STOP! Please! Stop!"

His cries became more desperate as the moaning behind him became more frequent, more guttural. He kicked, ignoring his broken leg as he continued to struggle against the cuffs, now slick with his blood.

"Stop! Please!" he cried out at the same time that the man moaned his release, a warm sensation coating the back of Reid's inner thighs. He grimaced at the feeling, choking on his sobs as the man fully pulled away from him and moved off the mattress. He was shaking, his knees too wobbly to keep him upright causing him to fall down on the mattress, and groan with the new pain. He was covered in blood and...He shuddered at the other substance that he knew was on him, feeling his stomach wretch violently. He raised himself on shaking arms, vomiting the moment he was propped up, his stomach churning with acid.

**-M-**

He felt sick- not just physically and not just because his stomach had deposited all its contents. He felt disgusting, dirty, humiliated, vulnerable...Emotions surged through him and he wanted to curl into himself, forgetting the world and the situation. Fortunately for him, he felt the combined dizziness from pain and blood loss fill his head once more and he passed out in a pile of vomit, blood and semen.

xXx

"Hey, did he say anything?" Varney asked, standing beside Hotch as he looked through the window where Morgan and Rossi now sat with Matthews.

Hotch shook his head, crossing his arms over his chest. "Nothing of use. He just keeps saying things about Reid to get a rise out of us," he said, the anger not evident in his voice. He was a calm, reserved man- but did not mean he was emotionless. And right now, anger, frustration and concern for his friend were slowly breaking away at his cold exterior.

Varney growled, voicing the FBI agents thoughts. "Well, that's just wonderful. What about the search of his house?"

"Ongoing. But Reid definitely isn't there. We had Garcia look for any other properties in his name, but she found none. She's still searching though to see if there's anyway he could have anything under a different name or owner," he answered.

A moment of silence passed where they watched Morgan slam his hand down on the table and get face-to-face with Matthews, snarling viciously. When Morgan walked behind him and then sat himself down, Varney turned to Hotch and said, "Hey...I just got a call from my sister. My mother, up in Quebec, got into a car accident." He cleared his throat awkwardly, shooting Hotch a quick, sad glance.

"Is she alright?"

He bit his lip and shook his head slowly. "No. She got beat up real bad. They...they're not sure if she's going to pull through..." he said, his voice fading out as he released a poorly concealed sob. His face fell and he tried to blink tears away. With a deep breath to collect himself, he said, "S-sorry. I just...I haven't seen her...years...s-she..." He started sobbing once more and Hotch awkwardly placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Can you get a flight out there?" he asked.

Varney looked at him, his eyes shining with tears. "I...I'm working this case. I can't...Reid..."

"Reid has us," Hotch said, nodding towards the interrogation room where Rossi now took the lead. "Your mother needs to have you now."

"But-"

"Varney, go visit her. Besides, we've already got our UnSub. Now it's just a matter of finding Reid. You've helped us enough on this case, go see your mother," he said. Varney's face broke into a bright, adoring smile.

"I...I don't know what to say, Agent Hotchner. This...it means so much to me. Thank you," he said through his tears, gratitude obvious as Hotch offered him a small smile.

"Don't worry about it. Now, go try to catch the next flight," he said, turning back to the window.

"Okay," he said, starting to walk away before he looked back at Hotch. "Good luck with finding Reid. I hope you get to him in time."

Hotch nodded. "I hope your mother pulls through."

Varney gave a weak, tight-lipped smile in his direction and then walked away, letting Hotch turn his full attention to Matthews. He continued to watch the interview, knowing that he was not revealing any more information. Matthews turned and looked to him, as if seeing through the mirror to Hotch himself, and smiled eerily. A smile that clearly said, 'I won.'

xXx

**Author's Note:**** This chapter was difficult to write, but I hope it didn't effect the quality too much. I tried to keep the flow there for anyone who didn't feel comfortable reading the material, so let me know how I did, please. Thanks again for all your wonderful reviews! Present!**

**Chapter Thirteen: Locked in a Cage (Preview)**

"What's wrong, Garcia?" he asked, noticing the lack of a witty greeting.

"I...I think I found something, Hotch," she said and he looked at Rossi before putting his call on speakerphone.

"What did you find?"

"About a week before Matthews was taken into custody, he was given a cheque for fifty thousand dollars. And not a salary of any sort," she said and Rossi moved closer, sending a fleeting look to the handcuffed man.

"Who paid him?" he asked.

"That's where it gets confusing," she said after a pause.

"What do you mean? Who paid him?" Hotch asked.


	13. Chapter 13

**Disclaimer:** **Criminal Minds and all its associated characters are property to CBS and no profit is being made from this story.**

**Chapter Thirteen: Locked in a Cage**

'_Insanity is relative; it all depends on who has who locked in a cage.' –Ray Bradbury_

"How are you feeling today, Spencer?" Andrew asked, undoing Reid's restraints. Thick layers of gauze were wound over his wrists from where the metal had dug into his skin the other day and he did his best to avoid the man's eyes. Sitting up gingerly, wincing at the soreness in his backside, Andrew tried to help Reid up from the bed, but the agent jerked away from his touch.

"Don't," he said sharply, sliding further away from him. He tried to raise himself on his shaking arms, grimacing at the pain, but he still felt like jelly- his muscles virtually useless. Andrew reached over to help him once more but he moved, jumping down at the same time as if to prove he could do it himself. When the soles of his still cut up feet landed on the hard, cold floor, he hissed in pain and fell to his knees, clenching his fists tightly.

The pain- shooting up from the nerves in his feet and the muscles of his rectum- became so overwhelming and intense that he barely registered hands grabbing onto his shoulder. But when awareness settled into his mind and he noticed the heavy weight on him, he lurched, kicking and squirming weakly as Andrew only tightened his grip and continued to pull him up.

After several minutes, Reid was standing on wobbly legs, quivering at the touch that kept him standing. His shoulders felt like they were being burned and his stomach tightened as the incident from the previous day returned.

_'Deep breaths, Spencer,'_ he told himself, trying to quell the flaring nausea inside him. He felt like he was covered in millions of tiny little bugs, invisible to eyes yet still there as their dirty legs climbed up him. His skin tingled as the invisible bugs burrowed underneath, irritating every individual nerve ending, and he wanted to shower.

No, he _needed_ to shower.

Reaching up a shaking hand, he scratched his bare arms, trying to rake away the mites, uncaring of how his nails turned the pale appendage red and raw. The crawling sensation felt so wrong, so dirty. He needed to get rid of it, even if it meant digging down to his bone to do so. Thick, wet liquid coated his fingers, yet he continued to scratch himself despite the blood.

The bugs were growing.

Millions upon millions.

No, billions...

Trillions...

So many legs climbing and pinching his skin, digging under the layers. Yet no matter how hard he scratched the bugs would not reveal themselves- the disgusting sensation remained.

Increasing.

Increasing.

Increasing.

"SPENCER!"

He looked up, startled, to the worried face of Andrew, only inches from his. A tight grip was around his bicep and his knees were dug into the...floor? When had he fallen? He couldn't remember. He had been too focused on getting rid of the grimy feeling to be aware of his surroundings, or even his own actions. Yet now he knelt down, Andrew by his side as he eyed him with concern, self-inflicted cuts stinging his arms.

His lip trembled as he swallowed, unnerved by the close proximity. Had Andrew been the one to abuse him? There had been two voices in the room, and he was fairly certain that the person who sodomized him was the owner of the voice his addled brain didn't recognize. But it was just as likely that Andrew had been the one to do it.

Feeling a burn of betrayal ache his chest, he shuffled away from the man before him, his entire body shaking and stinging as the cold air licked at his freshly made injuries. The nausea returned and he quickly thrust his head between his knees, gripping the joints with a painful grip as he breathed deeply. Don't vomit, don't vomit...

"Spencer, you're filthy. Why don't you come take a shower?"

Slowly, he looked up at him, biting his lower lip in thought. The legs of the bugs still flitted over his skin and the idea of washing it away- drowning the imaginary insects- seemed wonderful. Not to mention how soothing the warm water would feel on his aching muscles. But it would also sting his wounds- old and new- and he was sure that the shower would be supervised; the last thing he wanted to do was be naked and vulnerable in a room with someone who took part in his attack.

As if reading his thoughts through his clouded hazel eyes, Andrew said, "You'll be alone to shower, of course. I'll only stand by the door to make sure nothing happens, as procedure calls for."

Procedure? With a snort, Reid realized he was referring to the procedures taken in psychiatric wards. _'You should be locked in a psych ward,'_ he thought bitterly, shivering at the memory of his hallucination. He had heard and seen what wasn't there...he had hallucinated.

Panic swelled through him once more, but before it could progress any further, he was lifted from his sitting position by Andrew, who nearly dragged him over to the door opposite the wall his bed sat against. The door was pushed open to reveal a small bathroom- a one person shower in the far corner with walls made of sea-foam green tiles was behind a sandy colored curtain, a toilet next to it. A tiny pedestal sink was place against the adjacent wall, half covered in the same tiles, with a plastic mirror above it. On the lid of the closed toilet sat several large towels, the same color as the shower curtains, and two washcloths.

A hand nudged the middle of his back and Reid stumbled onto the cold tile, hard compared to the linoleum his feet had become accustomed to. As he straightened himself up, hissing at the stab of pain from his older injuries, Andrew strode past him and started the shower, testing the water with his hand and adjusting it so that the lever practically sat in the middle.

Turning towards Reid, he said, "Not too, but not too cold. Shampoo, conditioner and body wash are in the corner shelf." He grabbed a washcloth and handed it to the young man, nearly out the door before a small voice stopped him.

"Andrew," Reid said softly, quivering as the water droplets pelted against the tiles and echoed in the small space available, ringing through the room. When the doctor turned to him, an eyebrow raised, he licked his lips and asked, "Who...who was it...last...last night?"

Silence was thick between them, Andrew cocking his head to the side. "What do you mean?"

Reid looked into the running shower, his resolve nearly gone before adding, "Who was it who...who did that to me?" When he received a blank look, he mumbled, "Who was it who r...raped me?"

"No one did, Spencer," Andrew said softly, his tone almost sympathetic.

Reid's head shot up, causing a quick instance of vertigo to overcome him. No one did? He was lying! Of course someone did! He was sure of it! That wasn't a hallucination- the pain was too real, and his bottom still seared with soreness. How dare he insinuate that _nothing_ happened to him.

"You're getting worse. The paranoia is getting out of control," Andrew muttered, more to himself than to Reid. But before Reid could even argue this statement, he snapped his attention back to the agent and said, "I'm sorry, Spencer, but we're running out of options. I'm afraid I will have to perform electroshock therapy on you. Now get in the shower- you haven't bathed in five days since I returned you and you are filthy."

The door slammed shut with a deafening _click_ and all Reid could hear was the water hitting the tiles and blood rushing to his head, buzzing in his eardrums. Electroshock therapy? No, he couldn't really do that could he? He swallowed hard and shook at the thought, imagining what it would feel like to be struck by volts upon volts of electricity.

He squeezed the washcloth in his hand as he absentmindedly began peeling the hospital gown off of his body, grimacing as it stuck to his cut arms. When he had thrown the gown onto the floor and stood naked, shivering in the cold, he looked at the mirror in his vision's periphery, unsure of whether or not he really wanted to see his reflection.

Andrew had said five days...So he had been imprisoned for five days- what changes to his appearance could have occurred in such a short span of time? His curiosity getting the better of him- as it often did- he turned fully to face the mirror, gasping audibly at the image that stared back at him.

His skin was white with a sickly sheen of yellow, pulled gaunt over his bones, stretching over the curves of his structure. His cheeks looked shallow and pitted, sunken inward as his cheekbones jutted outward. His hazel eyes were dull and listless with exhaustion and defeat, held far back in his skull in bruising eye sockets. Deep circles sat beneath his eyes and his dark curls were lank with grease and blood, shining crudely in the fluorescent light. His temple was bruised badly, shades of plum and yellow sticking out against his skin and his forehead had been split open, blood caked to the wound acting as a bandage. Various gashes and bruises littered his form, but the mirror showed no lower than his collarbone and he sighed in relief. He wasn't quite sure if he could handle seeing his body so broken- his leg set in a bulky cast, stitched wounds pulling his skin even taunter together, burns and bruises marring his skin.

Swallowing painfully, he ducked his head and limped over to the shower, tentatively placing a hand under the pelting droplets. He moaned softly at the warmth of it, his eyes fluttering shut as the water gently massaged his open palm, warming his bones and muscles. It seemed like he couldn't get inside fast enough, lumbering into the sectioned off area and sighing contentedly at the comfort it provided. He could practically feel tension leaving his body as it was worked away by invisible hands, ceasing the shiver that crept through him.

Grease from his unwashed hair trickled down his chest and back, his curls hanging in limp, wet divisions and sticking to his face. Watered down blood slid over his arms and fell to the tiled floor with a resounding _drip_ that shook his ears. But he didn't care how loud the noise was- the heat felt too wonderful for him to mind.

Minutes passed before Reid even begun to wash himself. The soaps were in plain bottles, with the only identifying information being the big bold words of 'SHAMPOO' 'CONDITIONER' and 'BODY WASH' that labeled each one. Reaching out, he grabbed the shampoo and opened it, squeezing a generous amount into his palm and then smoothing it into his hair. It felt so good to finally have clean hair, even if it did smell like coconuts. But his happiness at such a simple luxury was soon forgotten as he recalled Andrew's parting words.

_Electroshock Therapy..._

He couldn't let Andrew perform that on him. Torture was one thing. Torture he could live through. But having the chemistry of his brain permanently alter for no reason? He whimpered at the thought. This was going too far. He needed to leave _now_.

The water continue to beat against him, but his mind was far from focused on the shower now. The gears in his brain- long since silenced by pain and fear- were cranking back into use again, whirring into plans and thoughts.

He needed to act like the team wasn't searching for him- like he was on his own. He closed his eyes, thinking up an escape that was sure to work.

xXx

"Did you find anything, Garcia?" Morgan asked through his cellphone and the blonde huffed impatiently.

"No, I haven't," she said softly, growling in anger as a search revealed yet another dead end. "There's no other property in his name. The only property he would have connections to would be that of his friends and family."

Morgan sighed. "And we already searched all of those properties. Nothing there."

Garcia frowned as she leaned forward on her desk, resting her head in her hand. "What if we don't find him?" Her voice was choking over tears and she grimaced with the effort to hide them. The last thing they needed was for a team member to breakdown when they were so close to finding Reid.

"Hey, don't speak like that, Baby Girl. We'll find him, alright?" his soothing voice said to her through her headset and she nodded, knowing that he couldn't see her do so. He continued to speak and she could almost hear the smile in his voice as he said, "Work one of those famous Garcia Miracles of yours and find our boy. I know if anyone can, it's you, Sweetheart." She smiled wide at the praise, his encouragement just what she needed to begin her search once again.

"I'll start looking through his payment history and see if he gave money to someone else to purchase property for him. I'll let you know what I find," she said, hanging up the phone just after he said _'That's my girl_.'

Even though she sounded confident, and even though Morgan treated her like a goddess of knowledge, she was terrified that she would find nothing. That _she_ would be the reason they didn't find Reid- in time or at all. How would she live with herself, knowing that her computer prowess wasn't good enough to save him? That she was the only one whose skills weren't honed enough to provide them what little information they needed...

Shaking herself of the thoughts, she proceeded to find payment records, deciding that moping around was single-handedly the least effective action to help him. Her fingers pressed keys madly, her eyes scanning the screen quickly as she looked for any large transactions. For minutes she sat there, going through bank and account records, trying to find a lead. But her search ended when she saw something that made her eyes widen and her jaw drop.

Frantically, she began to call Hotch, unable to take her eyes from the newly discovered lead. The ring of the telephone began and her heart thumped wildly in her chest.

_This was it..._

xXx

"He isn't saying anything, Hotch," Rossi said quietly as they looked through the one-way window into the interrogation room, where Emily and Morgan were now questioning Matthews.

Hotch sighed and closed his eyes briefly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. They were getting nowhere. They had found the UnSub and were getting nowhere. God only knew what state Spencer was in, or if he was even still alive. He shuddered at the involuntary thought. Of course he was still alive- there was no evidence to prove otherwise and until there was, they would continue to search.

He was disrupted from his reply to Rossi by the vibration of his cellphone. He grabbed it and flipped it open, hearing Garcia's breathy hello.

"What's wrong, Garcia?" he asked, noticing the lack of a witty greeting.

"I...I think I found something, Hotch," she said and he looked at Rossi before putting his call on speakerphone.

"What did you find?"

"About a week before Matthews was taken into custody, he was given a cheque for fifty thousand dollars. And not a salary of any sort," she said and Rossi moved closer, sending a fleeting look to the handcuffed man.

"Who paid him?" he asked.

"That's where it gets confusing," she said after a pause.

"What do you mean? Who paid him?" Hotch asked.

"The cheque was given to Matthews by Heath Varney."

xXx

"Here, take your pill, Spencer," Andrew said, offering him the medication and another small water bottle to Reid, who sat on his bed, unchained, with a towel wrapped around his waist. His hair was still damp, water running down his shoulders, back and chest from the tips of his curls, his skin rubbed red and raw. He had been forcefully removed from the shower after Andrew discovered him scrubbing his skin hard enough to draw blood in the hottest setting and was now shivering as the cool air hit his burning skin.

He held his arm out, cupping his palm as the pill fell into it and then popping into his mouth, taking a swig from the water bottle to follow it down. Andrew regarded him slowly, his gaze one of contemplation.

"Why were you doing that?"

Reid waited a second before replying, rolling his shoulders as he spoke. "I felt dirty."

"Why?"

He shook his head, slumping forward. But he didn't answer, letting the silence be reply enough. Andrew sighed, walking over to his medical bag and placing it on the desk where he began to look through it, pulling out a blowtorch, a knife and a blindfold.

The second the fabric fell onto the table, Reid's eyes widened in realization at what was to come and he jumped from the bed, gasping as his broken leg made a cracking sound. His entire body gave way and he held onto his calf, holding it close to his body as he whimpered in pain. Andrew sent a concerned look towards him, placing all the items down on the desk before he walked over to help Reid up. But when he approached the agent, he growled angrily and rolled his body away, shuffling towards the wall.

"Spencer-" he began, but was cut off.

"DON'T! Please...not again," he said, his words coming out between ragged breaths as he pressed himself as close to the wall as possible, as if trying to sink into it and disappear. His lungs were expanding and contracting at an inhuman rate, but air was still escaping him as adrenaline buzzed through his veins. Once was bad enough. He couldn't let it happen twice.

"Spencer, relax. This is for your own good."

"No! Don't! Please!"

Everything that occurred next happened so fast, it would seem more like a blur to an outside viewer. With epinephrine working into his body, Reid stood and ran to the door, grabbing the handle and pulling such ferocity that the bolts began to wiggle in the sockets, the padlock nearly breaking. In the mere seconds that he had been there, fighting against his only escape, he started losing hope, knowing that the door wouldn't budge any further.

Andrew was watching with an amused expression on his face, as if he knew as well Reid was fighting a losing battle. But when a _snap_ filled their ears and Reid fell back with momentum, he gaped at what had happened. The door slid open, revealing a brightly lit corridor with bare, white walls.

The two men were motionless for a moment, but almost instantaneously Reid jumped back out and ran through the door, his face alighted with hope- actual hope- that he might get out. That he might return home. But no sooner had he stepped into the hall that he felt a hand grab his arm, and he jumped forward, trying to break free. The towel slipped from his waist, but he couldn't care about his state of undress- he was so close to getting out!

The grip slipped from his arm and he stumbled forward, his heartbeat accelerating to a dangerous pace as he picked himself and ran to the left, seeing the flight of stairs. Roaring blood filled his head and he felt lightweight, as if it was all a dream that was too good to be true. But the throb in his broken leg and everywhere else and the shooting pain in the soles of his feet proved otherwise. It proved that it was real- the pain was real, the rush was real and the escape was real.

He reached his hands out, using the walls to stabilize himself as he continued to run awkwardly to the stairs, wishing he could move faster. Meeting the landing, he started taking two steps at a time, hopping up the creaking boards to his destination. But when his foot connected with the sixth step, a hand wrapped around his ankle and pulled him down.

He cursed loudly as he fell back, tumbling down the stairs and onto the hard, unfinished concrete floor, gasping out in pain. Shoulders smacked down harshly, legs banged against the stairs, and his head whipped back and _thwacked_ against the cement. Bright white stars blurred his vision and he moaned, trying to roll over to his side. A foot on his chest stopped him however, and he looked weakly up at Andrew, who frowned down at him.

He opened his mouth to speak, but stopped when he saw the needle being pulled out from Andrew's lab cloak, along with the tranquilizer. He began squirming, trying to wriggle out from underneath him, ignoring the throbbing protest his head made at the jerky movements. But it was no use, the needle pinched his shoulder and he gasped as the fluid rushed into him, making him feel sleepy and weak.

"Now I'm going to have to punish you," Andrew said almost sadly before the world went black.

xXx

When Reid woke up, his body was on fire from fresh pain, the blindfold shielding his eyes. He was lying on his belly, his wrists cuffed to the headboard once more and his muscles and bones hurting more than ever before. Blood and semen covered his thighs once more and he was somewhat grateful that he had been unconscious during the act. But the ache in his lower region and the humiliated feeling that came with it still lingered, making him want to bury his face in the singular pillow and cry, giving way to all the emotions and hurt that he had lived through and with for the past five days.

Five days...

He had been here for five days and no one had found him yet, no one had come to rescue him. He choked on the thought, feeling his eyes burn as his shoulders quivered and then shook. Were they even looking for him? Would they just leave him here to be tortured and sodomized?

Tears fell hot onto his fevered cheeks, his teeth biting down on his lower lip as he struggled to contain a cry of despair. Of course they were still looking for him.

Unless...

Unless they weren't real. Unless they were a delusion.

The cry escaped as Reid crumpled down onto the mattress, drawing his body inward as he rocked himself back and forth, muttering one phrase over and over again.

"They are real...They are real..."

xXx

"Hotch?" Garcia asked after a moment of no response. "Are you still there?"

Blinking in surprise, as if he was just know aware of the fact that he was in a conversation, he looked to Rossi, licking his lips. "Yes, I am. Are you sure it's our Varney?"

"Yeah. It says he's a police officer and his current residence is in Phoenicia. It's our Varney," she said breathlessly, still in shock herself. "You need to get him, Hotch. He has to know where Reid is, I just know it!" Her voice was desperate now, reaching high octaves before she cleared her throat and apologized.

"He went on a plane," he answered softly, awareness rushing through him. _He _told him to go. _He _let him leave. _He _let the newest suspect walk away. He swallowed, looking back to Matthews for a second before pressing the intercom button, leaning forward to make an announcement.

"Come out here. We found something."

JJ and Morgan looked back to the window, blinking and sharing a look of subdued hope and confusion before saying some final words to Matthews and leaving, looking to Hotch as the door clicked into place.

"What happened?" JJ asked, her face flushed and her eyes wide. _'Please...lead us to Spencer,'_ she thought as Hotch raised his cell phone into their view.

"Garcia found something."

"That I did," she said, her voice cracking over the receiver. "It appears that Varney paid Matthews fifty thousand dollars a week before his arrest. I know I'm not a profiler or anything, but I don't think Matthews is our guy. I think Varney is."

"No, I think you're right, Garcia," Rossi said, walking forward to be closer to the phone. "Can you look up his flight information? When his plane departed, or if it even did?"

"Of course."

There was silence for a moment as she pulled up the data, the team waiting with bated breath for her answer. When they heard her mutter a solemn "No..." Morgan leapt forward, taking the phone and practically yelling into it.

"What did you find?"

They could hear her cry now as she said, "He crossed country line, we have no jurisdiction. He left fourteen hours ago."

xXx

**Author's Note:**** There are a lot of smart people who reviewed last chapter, predicting that Varney paid Matthew off. Well, I guess there's still some mystery, eh? Thanks again to all reviewers, and anyone who alerted or favorited this story. It means a lot. Review me your thoughts and suggestions- improvement is only a click away!**

**IMPORTANT! There is now a poll on my profile (At least, it should be there. Fan Fiction has not been kind to me lately) The question is: Should I write a sequel to The Doctor's Patient? The answers are: Yes, but with no second capture. Just a glimpse into life after the incident. Yes, and with a second capture where Reid is kidnapped again (with plot changes, don't worry, it won't be a mindless rewrite) and No, I would not be interested in a sequel. I would greatly appreciate it if everyone took the time to answer, as I'm still on the fence about writing one and if so, what to do. I have multiple ideas going on, but still am not sure which the readers will enjoy more. So let me know. The one with the most votes will be given the most consideration.**

**Let me know on what you would like to see for a sequel, if there is one and hopefully I can satisfy all readers. Now, present time!**

**Chapter Fourteen: Between Angels and Demons (Preview)**

"Spencer, I'm sorry I had to punish you. But you tried to escape. I just wanted to help," Andrew said, sighing sadly as he sat down in the chair he had pulled up to Reid's bed. Reid looked up at him, still lying on his belly as he tugged the blanket closer under his chin, his head nodding slowly.

"I understand," he said, licking his lips.

Andrew raised an eyebrow. "You do?"

"Yes. I...I know now how delusional I was being. How...ridiculous I was. You were...you were right. I'm sorry," he said, swallowing as he gave the doctor a pitiful look, his hazel eyes wide and glistening. "I...I just want to be sane. I want...I need you to help me. I'm sorry I tried to escape. I'm sorry I argued with you. You were right."

Andrew's mouth fell open in shock, closing every so often before he straightened his back and said, "You believe me now, Spencer? You know just how dangerously unstable you are?"

Reid smiled weakly, his lips quivering. "Yes."

"You know that you're not an FBI agent? That there is no team you work with?"

He was unreadable for a moment, his eyes glazing over briefly before he nodded and said, "Yes. There is no team, and I'm not an agent. I never have been."


	14. Chapter 14

**Disclaimer:** **Criminal Minds and all its associated characters are property to CBS and no profit is being made from this story.**

**Chapter Fourteen: Between Angels and Demon**

'_I was walking among the fires of Hell, delighted with the enjoyments of genius; which to Angels look like torment and insanity.' –William Blake_

Andrew sighed as he walked down the stairs on his usual haunt down to visit Spencer, his medical bag under his arm and a tray of food balanced in his grip. He was feeling guilty, to be quite honest. He had been so harsh on Spencer yesterday, so cruel. He had tried to escape though- he needed to teach him a lesson. He growled slightly as he thought back to yesterday's events, a grimace on his face.

After Spencer had succumbed to the tranquilizer he gave him, he hauled him into his room and cuffed him once more, deciding that he needed to fix the door immediately. Once that was done, he took a knife and blowtorch to the still unconscious patient and ran both all the way down his body, receiving barely awake jerks and moans of pain. And then when that was done he stepped back and let his partner have some time with Spencer.

This thought brought him back from his reverie, and his grimace turned to a look of disgust.

The thought of giving his patient to _him_ for such a vile purpose was angering, and he felt like he was doing an injustice to the man. But it had to be done in order for his experiments to work- it was a concession he made once he took in his first patient.

He approached the door and unlocked it, a new padlock having been installed as the old one was weakened after the escape, and entered the room. Spencer was where he had left him- lying belly down on the bed, handcuffed, naked and still covered in blood and semen. He frowned, his heart reaching out to the man. It was so pathetic, so indignant. Anger for his reluctant partner surged through him once more, but he pushed it down, knowing that he had to continue with his experiment as unbiased as possible.

Placing the tray down on the desk, he walked closer to the man, lying his bag down on the floor as he pulled the seat over to be closer to Spencer. The blindfold was still shielding his eyes, and he was shivering in the frigid basement air. Slowly, Andrew reached down to the drawer under the bed, pulling out a spare, cotton blanket which he placed tenderly over Spencer, who stiffened at the touch.

The action rekindled Andrew's anger, but it was not visible for long as he continued to cover him, tucking the blanket under him to insure that no cold crept beneath the covers. The young patient made a soft sigh of relief as he relaxed slightly, welcoming the warmth after being exposed to the cold for so long. Too long.

Andrew then reached around his head and undid the blindfold, watching as Spencer blinked, the world came back into view, his hazel eyes squinting slightly.

"Spencer, I'm sorry I had to punish you. But you tried to escape. I just wanted to help," Andrew said, sighing sadly as he sat down in the chair he had pulled up to Reid's bed. Reid looked up at him, still lying on his belly as he tugged the blanket closer under his chin, his head nodding slowly.

"I understand," he said, licking his lips.

Andrew raised an eyebrow. "You do?"

"Yes. I...I know now how delusional I was being. How...ridiculous I was. You were...you were right. I'm sorry," he said, swallowing as he gave the doctor a pitiful look, his hazel eyes wide and glistening. "I...I just want to be sane. I want...I need you to help me. I'm sorry I tried to escape. I'm sorry I argued with you. You were right."Andrew's mouth fell open in shock, closing every so often before he straightened his back and said, "You believe me now, Spencer? You know just how dangerously unstable you are?"

Reid smiled weakly, his lips quivering. "Yes."

"You know that you're not an FBI agent? That there is no team you work with?"

He was unreadable for a moment, his eyes glazing over briefly before he nodded and said, "Yes. There is no team, and I'm not an agent. I never have been."

To say he was shocked was an understatement. He hadn't expected Spencer to break so quickly. But he supposed it was for the best. The fact that he broke him meant his real experiments could begin.

He smiled wide, raising a hand and gently patting Spencer's shoulder.

"Now, Spencer! What great progress you've made!" he praised, chuckling jovially. His happiness ceased however when he saw the uncertain and frightened look in his eyes. He furrowed his brow, moving in closer. "What's wrong? Aren't you happy?"

Reid licked his lips and shrugged his shoulders as he said, "My wrists hurt. Can you let me out please? I want to eat breakfast anyway."

Andrew nodded as he began undoing the chains, producing another hospital gown once he was finished which his patient readily put on. "You know Spencer, there was a point where I didn't think you would ever come around. But I'm glad you did. This means we can start focusing on keeping you this way." He paused, looking down at Spencer with a prideful smile as he helped him off the bed, wrapping an arm around his waist so as to insure he didn't fall on their way to the table.

"Stay here," he said, sprinting over and grabbing the chair so he could place it once more in front of the desk. He motioned for Spencer to sit. A look of hesitation crossed his features and Andrew followed his line of sight, the restraints hanging limp from the arm of the chair. He smiled sympathetically, clapping a hand on his patient's back as he added, "I don't think the restraints will be necessary."

Spencer sighed in relief, smiling wide as he gingerly sat down, wincing at the pulse of pain it created. But the expression didn't last long as he licked his lips, removing the lid of food himself. It took less than a second after Andrew handed him his utensils that he practically attacked his meal of pancakes, scrambled eggs and bacon, only stopping to wash down some rather large bites with his bottle of orange juice. Syrup dribbled down his chin but he seemed not to notice as he continued his assault on the food, eating as if he hadn't seen food for days. But of course, that wasn't too off as he had been unconscious or unwilling to eat the last couple meals when Andrew brought him food.

He smiled, knowing that this alone was a major sign of improvement. Spencer was ready for his true experiments now- and he had gotten farther than his other patients ever did. Beaming with pride and happiness, he sat down on the desk, watching as Spencer finished off the pancakes hungrily, his eyes laughing at the near feral way he acted. Hopefully, now that they had crossed this milestone, he wouldn't need to hurt him anymore. He really didn't like causing him pain- he only did it because it was for the best.

Frowning deeply, he wondered about his partner and if he could get him to stop his own practices with the young man. He was positive that such a thing would hinder or even reverse the progress he'd made, but there was no guarantee he would have enough power to stop it.

"Andrew?"

He jumped, startled by the sudden voice and looked down to Spencer, who had finished eating and was now regarding him with a look of fear and concern.

"What is it, Spencer?"

He glanced down at the floor, fidgeting slightly as he began rubbing his hands together, entwining his fingers quickly as he said, "I...I'm afraid that I might try to escape again. I don't want to leave because I know that this is where I need to be- to get help- and I want to stay so I can get better. But I'm scared that I might lapse back into my delusion again and try to escape." He looked up Andrew, his eyes wide and bright with unshed tears as he asked, "I was wondering if you could use the tranquilizer on me before you leave. You leave everyday after breakfast and come back for dinner, so I was hoping that I could be given something that would keep me out until you got back. Please?"

Andrew bit his lip in thought, his heart once more wanting to reach out for him. It must be a scary thing, to believe that you're insane and not know whether your actions are based in reality or delusions. He gave Spencer a half-hearted smile as he reached into his lab cloak and produced the syringe and the same bottle of tranquilizer.

"I'm very proud of you, Spencer, for taking the initiative with this. It shows a lot, you know," he said, and Spencer smiled awkwardly at the praise, shrugging his left shoulder slightly as he filled the syringe with the tranquilizer. But just as he placed it in the crook Spencer's arm to inject it, he felt a sharp and sudden pain collide with his ribs.

He coughed as he fell to the floor, his hand letting go of the needle in the process. Rolling over to the undamaged side of his body, he wrapped his arms around his waist as he moaned at the pain. What had happened? What had hit? Slowly, so as to not irritate his sure to be broken ribs, he looked over at the chair where Spencer was sitting in, only to find it empty.

xXx

Andrew moved closer to him, the needle propped up and aimed for the bend in his arm, and Reid swallowed nervously. _'This is my chance,'_ he thought as he swiftly raised his left knee and jammed it as hard as he could into the man's side, hearing a victorious crack at the site of impact. Startled, Andrew fell with a _thump_, the syringe falling from his grip and rolling across the floor to lay beside the bathroom door.

Sending Andrew a quick look, he jumped from his seat and ran as fast as his broken leg would allow, sliding as he reached the door and the needle. He gripped it, wrapping his hands around the cool barrel as he stood, his legs wobbling with pain and nerves. He nearly yelped when he saw that the doctor had managed to stand as well, one arm holding onto the back of the chair and the other wrapping around his waist to hold his ribs, his face scrunched up in pain.

"Spencer," he wheezed, shaking his head slowly. "Don't do this. You need help."

"Go to Hell," Reid spat out venomously before using all the strength he had to jump forward and grab onto the man, knocking him over to the ground. He straddled his waist, pinning him down to the linoleum as he knocked his hands away, raising the needle outward and to the side. Andrew reached out, trying to grab hold of the syringe and to knock Reid off. But his efforts ended when Reid squeezed his knees together, his left knee once more jamming into Andrew's broken ribs.

He gasped out in pain, his hands falling to his side to hold onto the throbbing area, giving Reid the momentary opening he needed. Quickly, he jammed the needle down, pushing it in as hard as he could before pressing his thumb down on the plunger. He watched with tentative triumph as the liquid was forced into Andrew, the man's eyes wide as he cocked his head to see the needle.

Roaring in outrage, he jumped into a sitting position and reached up, grabbing onto a lock of Reid's hair and pulling him down. Reid yelped out in surprise and pain as he was forced to the floor, his scalp aching as his shoulder rammed into the leg of the chair. He hissed at the smarting scrape, shuffling on the floor as he tried to sit up. A hand reached up and fingers wrapped around his neck, cutting off his oxygen supply. He sputtered, his fingers flying to the hand around his neck and digging his nails into it as he tried to pry it off, his face turning red.

But the hand wouldn't budge and his feet kicked against the floor as he struggled to get out of the grip and breathe. His vision was becoming blurry and a large pressure sat on his chest. He opened his mouth and tried to breath in air, in vain as the hand continued to bruise his neck. High-pitched bells rang in his ears and he was sure he was about to pass out when he felt the hand slack in its grip.

Hazel eyes widened as he realized that the tranquilizer was starting to take effect. He pulled the hand away, finding that it had already gone limp and weak, and stood up, panting heavily. Andrew lay at his feet, unconscious, with his right arm pulled underneath his side- nursing the broken ribs- and his left arm was splayed across his chest, the knuckles tapping the linoleum floor.

Reid stood there for a second, stock still, as if the tiniest movement would set the mad doctor into life once more. But when the only motion Andrew made was the slight rise and fall of his chest, Reid crept forward, his fingers trembling as the searched around his hip for keys. When the tips of his fingers brushed against the cool metal of a clip, he smiled wide, hastily unfastening it from the belt loop. He raised the keys in front of his face, gently holding them in between his thumb and forefinger as though they would turn to dust with contact.

"Thank God," he breathed, standing up on screaming muscles. With the adrenaline no longer pumping through him at the height of the moment, he was suddenly aware of the throb in his leg, the ache in his backside, and the searing soreness everywhere else. But he couldn't let it overcome him now- not when he was so close!

Limping over to the door, he bent down and examined the lock before picking a small, silver key and inserting it. He turned it, but it refused to move. Sighing, he tried a second key- a medium sized silver one- only to get the same results. It wasn't until he tried the second-to-last-key that it turned in the lock and a victorious _click_ was made from inside the mechanism. He removed the key and slowly pushed the door open, his breath escaping him when the light of the hallway flooded into the room.

He sent one final look to Andrew before walking out into the hall. He was shaking- from anxiety, the lack of adrenaline, or from sheer happiness he wasn't sure. All that mattered now was that he was out and was that much closer to getting back to his team.

Turning to the still open door, he raised a hand and pushed it close, locking it to insure that even if Andrew did wake up before he managed to leave the house, he would be locked inside. He pocketed the keys, his fingers wrapping around them as he began his ascent up the stairs, expecting to hear the sound of footsteps chasing after them.

But no one was awake to follow him.

xXx

The door to the interrogation room slammed open and Matthews jumped, the metal of his cuffs clinking against the table. When he saw the hard set look on Morgan and Hotch's faces, he smirked, leaning back in his chair as he linked his hands together.

"What's with the long faces, Agents?" he asked, his tone tilted as though he were singing.

Morgan sneered at him as he stood on the opposite side of the table, leaning forward and slamming his hands down, his palms pressed flat as he bent so close to Matthews their noses nearly touched. "What was the money for?" he asked, his voice sharp and demanding. And for the first time in their entire interview, they saw the confidence and self-assuredness fade away from the suspect. His face paled, his lips parted and he began stuttering quietly, unable to form the words and syllables he wanted to.

"I-I-I d-don't kn-know what you m-mean," he stammered, his blue eyes looking around the room nervously, unable to settle in one spot for long.

"That's bullshit," Morgan said tersely, cocking his head so as to maintain eye contact despite Matthews attempts to avoid it. "Now tell me, why did Varney pay you fifty thousand dollars?"

Matthews moved uncomfortably, shifting as far back in his seat as possible as he began wringing his hands, raising them to rub his neck as he bit his lip. "I ugh...I-"

"Mr. Matthews," Hotch started, causing Morgan to stand up straight so that his boss could take the man's attention. "I don't know what Varney told you would happen, but you need to understand that at this moment, you are not only withholding information, but you are obstructing justice as well as providing false accounts to a federal officer. The longer you play stupid, the worse your sentence will be- and trust me, the last thing you want is to waste away for thirty years in a prison cell when you could've gotten away with eight."

"Eight?" Matthews asked, his eyebrows shooting up and disappearing beneath his hair.

Hotch nodded. "It's actually a very generous sentence considering how much you've messed with this case. Now, you can give us the information we need and get as low a sentence as possible, or you can do whatever it was Varney instructed you to and worsen your fate. And keep in mind that if Dr. Reid dies because of _your_ refusal to cooperate, you will be charged with accessory to murder on top of it all."

Matthews licked his lips as he shifted once more, the chains jostling with his movements. It felt like years before he looked up to meet Hotch's gaze, his mouth opening and closing several times before saying, "He paid me to say I was the Doctor. He said that if I was questioned by the police, to admit to being the Doctor." He looked around, meeting the eyes of the two agents as he added, "He told me what to say and how to act. He even told me that he would make sure I wouldn't go to jail."

"Well, he lied," Morgan said, crossing his arms over his chest. "Did he tell you anything else? Where Reid was or an address to find him at? Anything?"

Matthews shook his head. "No, not at all. Honestly, I would tell you! I'm...I'm not going to jail for thirty years, am I?" he asked.

They shot each other a look, Hotch turning to Matthews to say, "You better hope we find Dr. Reid alive." The two then turned away, taking long strides to the door and leaving Matthews, who slumped forward in his chair, his head bowed as he looked like the perfect picture of defeat.

xXx

Reid gasped as he leaned in the door frame, his body wanting nothing more than to lay down right then and there and go to sleep, to rest away the pain and exhaustion. But he was so close! Looking up, he could see the light of outside streaming through the cotton window coverings of the back door, white paint chipping and peeling away to reveal dark brown wood. He was sitting at the top of the stairs, in the hallway that led into the kitchen. And in the kitchen was a way out.

He attempted to continue walking, but screamed with the effort, falling down to the carpeted floors. He gasped as pain shot up his spine from his backside and rolled over to sit more on his hip in a hope to relieve the soreness. His breath was coming out in short, choppy exhales, and he closed his eyes against the pain, trying to will it away. He hadn't taken into account how worn out his body was- it would have been a miracle if he made it outside in the next five minutes! But he had calculated the possible longevity of the tranquilizer to be about eight hours- based on Andrew's appearance after he awoke- and so he knew he had time to sit down and catch his breath.

He lay there for nearly twenty minutes, the pain diminishing into a dull throb that seemed trivial to what he had become accustomed to in the last six days. So he raised himself on shaking arms and, using the wall for support, continued to walk to the back door, each footstep being another victory.

When his hand grasped the round, brass knob he practically fell over in disbelief. This was it! This was his gateway to freedom!

Even the fact that it was locked didn't deter him. He simply smiled as he produced the keys, finding a small, brass one that fit the lock perfectly. In a twist and pull, the door was open and a warm breeze rushed past him, lifting flyaway strands of hair up and back. He blinked at the bright light, smiling to himself as tears prickled in his eyes. He didn't care to wipe them away- why would he? They were tears of pure, unadulterated joy!

He lifted one leg and placed it down on the grass, sighing in comfort. The cold dew that attached to every individual blade of grass felt wonderful on his burned and cut up feet, and he relished the feeling. He wiggled his toes in it as he moved more outside, letting the sunlight bathe his too pale skin. He didn't mind that the sun hurt his eyes- too used to artificial, dim lighting- and he didn't mind how the wind picked up the gown and pulled it away from his body, leaving his lower body uncovered. None of it bothered him in the slightest.

His trudging towards the road that was just visible past the trees began once more, a new wave of adrenaline rushing into him at the prospect of being so close. He was only five feet away from the tree line when he heard it.

"Dr. Reid?"

Reid jumped at the sudden voice, turning in the direction it had come from, fear swallowing him up. He had been caught. He was discovered. He had just escaped and now he would be dragged back into that Hell. Panic boiled his blood as his eyes connected with all too familiar eyes.

His moan of relief was audible as he fell to his knees, smiling up at the man. "Varney!" he shouted, his voice scratchy and hoarse. Not only had he escaped, but he had stumbled upon a police officer working the case! His smile could only widen as the tears of joy began to fall down his cheeks. In less than an hour he could be sitting with his team, his friends, his _family_.

"Reid...how'd you get out?" Varney asked, his eyes wide in disbelief.

The young man furrowed his brow, shooting him a confused look. Something wasn't right. He sounded shock in all the wrong ways- the type of shock where your plans are messed up, or when a young child destroys something particularly well. Not the type of shock where your delight is momentarily placed aside at the absolute impossibility of an occurrence.

Shaking his head as he rose back to his feet slowly, Reid said, "I...I need to see my team. Varney, please take me to them."

Varney gave him a stern look before shaking his head. "I'm afraid I can't do that."

"Why not?"

Varney never answered him- he didn't even give Reid time to react before he raised his gun and shot it point blank at his chest.

xXx

**Author's Note:**** I see cacti in my near future for this cliffhanger, haha. Thanks again for all your ****reviews and support! Review me your thoughts and suggestions!**

**ALSO! Remember to vote in the poll! It will remain open until I post the final chapter to this story. I will close it and then post the details to the sequel at the bottom of the Epilogue (Yes, it seems everyone's in favor of a sequel, though they differ in the contents of it.) Vote now or forever hold your peace!**

**YAY! We crossed the One Hundredth Review mark! Party! Here's a somewhat longer preview in honor of this celebration!**

**Chapter Fifteen: In All Matters (Preview)**

"Did you call the Border Authority?" Hotch asked as JJ entered the room, her blonde hair pulled up into a loose bun and large, purple bags sitting below her eyes. She nodded as she sat down in a large swivel chair, crossing her legs and leaning back.

"I gave them a description of both Varney and Spencer. They promised to call and act immediately if they find anything suspicious," she said.

At the moment Morgan walked into the room, clicking his phone shut as he stood before them all. "I just got off the phone with Garcia. She did some digging around and found out that not only is Varney's mother alive and well, but she's living in Florida. But she never sold her house in Quebec, which means-"

"That could be they're hide-out," Rossi finished.

Morgan nodded. "Garcia's emailing us the address as we speak."

Hotch stood and turned to JJ. "Get the Border Authority back on the phone. Give them the address and tell them to check it out."

"Got it," she said as she stood and practically ran from the room as Hotch turned to the remaining team members, ready to give out instructions.


	15. Chapter 15

**Disclaimer:** **Criminal Minds and all its associated characters are property to CBS and no profit is being made from this story.**

**Chapter Fifteen: In All Matters**

'_In all matters of opinion, our adversaries are insane.' –Oscar Wilde_

Reid woke up to voices; tangible, embodied voices. His mind was cloudy with what he now knew to be heavy narcotics. He felt numb, his entire body on a completely separate plane of existence. He barely noticed the poking and prodding of metal utensils against his chest, or the bright beam of light hanging over him. His brain was too fuzzy and his thoughts too disconnected. The only thing he could hone in on were the voices surrounding him, speaking over him as metal instruments continued to work on his chest.

"Why did you shoot him in the chest, of all places?"

"I panicked- I just aimed and shot."

A scoff. "You're lucky I at least taught you some basic medical training. Lord knows he wouldn't be alive right now if not for that."

"Oh, as if you were much help. Getting yourself knocked unconscious for six hours."

"He tricked me. I thought it had worked."

"I still can't believe you got taken down by someone with broken bones and more scar tissue than skin tissue."

"Why do I even keep you around?"

"That's a stupid question."

Reid began to stir, sensation slowly creeping back to him as the voices continued to argue. He felt so heavy, so dizzy. His head lolled to the side and he tentatively cracked his eyes open, wincing at the glaring light above him. But the more he looked around, the more he realized the situation he was in. He was on an operating table, his chest bare as Andrew worked on his wound to safely remove the bullet, the entire section numb.

"Thank the Gods you have bad aim. You managed to shoot him above the heart, far enough away to prevent any fatal injuries," Andrew said as the owner of the second voice, who Reid soon discovered was Varney, rolled his eyes.

"Why does it matter anyway? He seems to have too much fight in him to be worth it. Why not find a different-" he started but was stopped by Andrew, who angrily slammed his fist down on a nearby table, turning his attention to the police officer.

"Because Spencer is _perfect_!" he shouted, his face turning red.

Varney jumped slightly, pulling back as he narrowed his eyes in confusion at his outburst. But Reid's mind had taken focus aware from the quarrel at hand and placed it directly on Varney, the police officer who he had worked with prior to being kidnapped. The police officer he had ate lunch with. The police officer who had told him where to go that day. The police officer who shot him. The police officer who was working with the UnSub all along.

How could he have done this to them? How did they not know? As he ran through all his conversations with the police officer, trying to isolate any hinting incidences that would have revealed his true personality, a deeply disturbing thought came over him. What if Varney had been the one raping him? His body twisted with physical discomfort at the thought. Had he really been so close to a monster all along? Had he really been betrayed by someone who he thought was friendly and helpful? He wanted to punch himself with the anger and self hate he felt right then and there. The question that he asked himself on the first day of his imprisonment resurfaced once more, louder and more reprimanding than before.

How could he have been so _stupid_?

His eyes cracked open again, watching with an almost sick fascination as Andrew operated on him, carefully working on the wound that, had his chest not been numb, he was sure would cause him insurmountable pain. Varney stood to his right, acting as an assistant as he helped Andrew here and there.

"Hand me the surgical knife," Andrew commanded and Varney reached to his side, producing the small knife and handing it to the man over Reid's chest.

It was the sight of his hands that set him off.

Hands that moved his gown up.

Hands that explored his body.

Hands that held him in place.

Hands that bruised his hips.

Reid growled in anger, embarrassment, guilt, and hatred, trying to pull his arms away from his sides only to find that they were so tightly clamped down to the rails of the table he could barely move his elbows. His movements, however, were enough to alert the two men to his consciousness and Andrew looked at him with a face a surprise.

"How...how is he even..."

Varney shook his head, smirking sadistically as he said, "Beats me why the little brat is always fighting." Andrew shot him a withering look before turning back to Reid, his expression almost tender as he reached out and gently stroked his cheek.

"Don't worry. We'll have you fixed up in no time. You're quite the fighter, you know," he said, pulling his hand back as he motioned towards something Reid couldn't see and mouthed a command to Varney. The police officer disappeared from view, only to return several seconds later as he placed a mask over Reid's mouth, who fruitlessly tried to pull away.

"Fine, go ahead and be conscious through the whole damn surgery. You'll pass out when the numbing wears off anyway," Varney mumbled angrily, causing Reid to still, letting the mask fully cover his nose and mouth. Varney looked up at him, smirking as he added, "Not so much fight as we thought then, eh? Oh well."

The room blurred, the voices faded, and Reid succumbed to sleep.

xXx

"Did you call the Border Authority?" Hotch asked as JJ entered the room, her blonde hair pulled up into a loose bun and large, purple bags sitting below her eyes. She nodded as she sat down in a large swivel chair, crossing her legs and leaning back.

"I gave them a description of both Varney and Spencer. They promised to call and act immediately if they find anything suspicious," she said.

At the moment Morgan walked into the room, clicking his phone shut as he stood before them all. "I just got off the phone with Garcia. She did some digging around and found out that not only is Varney's mother alive and well, but she's living in Florida. But she never sold her house in Quebec, which means-"

"That could be they're hide-out," Rossi finished.

Morgan nodded. "Garcia's emailing us the address as we speak."

Hotch stood and turned to JJ. "Get the Border Authority back on the phone. Give them the address and tell them to check it out."

"Got it," she said as she stood and practically ran from the room as Hotch turned to the remaining team members, ready to give out instructions.

"Alright, here's our plan. Once JJ informs the Border Authority and have them search the house, we're going to go to Varney's house. A search warrant is already being processed. We well search everything with his name on in it. We will question his family." He paused, debating on whether or not to say this next piece. He always preferred to never say anything too hopeful, to never hint towards the positives in case the negatives won out. But just this once, maybe he should make an exception. Let his team hope. Looking down to the floor for a brief second before returning his gaze to his team, he added, "And we will find him."

Everyone nodded, though no one possessed a look that showed that they believed in their bosses words. Even if the did find him, it wouldn't be _their_ Spencer. He would be different. Anyone would be different after six days with that monster.

"What if this is just another Red Herring?" Emily suggested, raising her arms only to flop them exasperatedly to her sides. "What if Varney isn't our guy and we have to keep digging? What if-"

"He's the partner," Rossi said, his eyes never leaving the desk he sat at. Hotch looked at him, prompting him to continue. "He has no medical training. And when we started the case, we did speculate on the contradictions in it. The victims were beaten, then healed. Then sodomized. Then embalmed. Then left naked. There were conflicting levels of respect and hate. There are two UnSubs. And Varney's one of them."

"So what if Varney fled the country and Reid and the Doctor are still here?" Morgan asked.

"Then we keep searching until we find them," Hotch said. "Even if Varney is another Red Herring, he's at least connected to our real UnSub. We find him, we find Reid."

"I alerted Border Patrol. They contacted Canadian Law Enforcement and are sending a group of armed officers at the address now," JJ said as she entered once more. Looking around, she asked, "What'd I miss?"

Rossi shook his head. "Nothing really. We're still searching for Varney and his partner."

"Partner?" she asked, raising a slender, blonde brow. But before anyone could answer her question, they were interrupted by the loud, beeping ring of Morgan's cell phone. He reached for it, opening it and immediately putting the caller on speakerphone.

"What is it, Baby Doll?" he asked.

"Somewhat positive news," Garcia said uncertainly, as though she were stretching the definition of _'positive_'.

"What is it?" Hotch asked, moving forward.

"Well, I was going over Varney's flight information and found that his ticket was never registered the day of the flight- or at all, for that matter. After I found that out, I hacked into the airports security archives and searched like I've never searched before. Varney did not enter or leave the terminal at all," she said, her voice gradually growing in confidence as she continued with her story.

"Varney never got on that plane," Hotch said, more to himself than anyone.

"Or any plane. I then looked to all nearby airports to see if there were any tickets purchased under his name or a possible pseudonym- nada. Then, I hacked into all the security footage from those airports and still, didn't find him. The only way Varney could've gotten into Canada was driving. But I looked into that too- his passport was not used. He did not cross country lines. He is still in the states. Possibly even still in New York."

Morgan was smiling wide, one of the first real smiles in days. "There's the miracle worker I know," he chuckled and they could practically hear her smirk at the comment.

"Good job, Garcia. You really pulled through on this," Hotch said. He then looked around the room and added, "I'm going to check the status of the search warrant. The second it's in, we're paying Mrs. Varney a visit."

xXx

"Mrs. Varney," Hotch said, rapping his knuckles on the door, the search warrant in his hand. "We need to speak to you. Open up, this is the FBI." He jumped back as the door opened, a ten year old boy standing behind.

"Hello?" he asked, confusion evident in his face.

"Hey," Emily started, smiling wide as she leaned forward to look the young boy in the eyes. "My name is Emily Prentiss. What's yours?"

"Shawn," he said, before looking around, brown eyes wide. "Are you really the FBI?"

"Yes, we are. Is your mother home? We need to speak with her," Hotch said.

Shawn opened the door wider slightly as he leaned back, his hand grasping the door knob as he called through the house. "MOM! THE POLICE ARE HERE!" he yelled. Immediately, footsteps echoed off the walls and a woman in her early forties came into view, wispy blonde hair pulled back into a bun as she looked nervously at each agent.

"Can I help you?" she asked, wrapping an arm around Shawn's shoulder as she knitted her brow in concern.

"Miss, are you Linda Varney?" Morgan asked.

Slowly, she nodded. "Yes, I am. What...what is all this about?"

Hotch lifted his hand, holding the folded search warrant in her line of vision. She pursed her painted lips as she leaned forward, her brown eyes scanning the visible words as she read. She gasped, her eyes opening wide as she pulled back and pushed Shawn behind her, who called her name in protest. "A search warrant? What for?" she asked, her voice raising to high pitches.

"Ma'am, I think it's best if your son isn't here to hear this," Morgan said, nodding towards the boy peaking out from behind his mother's waist. Linda turned around and gave him a stern look before grabbing his shoulders and motioning for him to go out back.

"But mom! I want-" he protested.

"Don't!" she snapped, effectively silencing the boy who bit his lip and turned around, stomping all the way to the backyard, pausing only to slam the door.

Linda turned back to face them, smiling apologetically as she let them in, yet her eyes were darkened with worry. "I'm sorry about him. But um...what...what is this warrant for?" she asked, sitting down on a worn, comfy looking couch, leaning forward with her palms pressed flat on her knees.

"We have reason to believe that your husband, Heath Varney, is connected to the abductions and murders that have been occurring here," Emily said softly, her eyes flitting to the floor the second understanding dawned in the woman.

"Wh...what?" she asked, her hands flying up to her chin. "You...you can't be..."

"I'm sorry."

Linda shook her hand, standing up only to sit back down when a wave dizziness crashed into her. "You're...he's not...he's not a murderer...he's a good man!" she yelled, her voice breaking over sobs as tears fell down her cheeks, marring the thin layer of eyeliner she had on. "He wouldn't hurt a fly! Let alone a human!"

"I'm sorry about this Ma'am, but like Agent Prentiss said, we have evidence against him," Hotch began, motioning towards Emily when he said her name. "We need you to help us now. Whoever the murderer is, he has an agent of ours and everything you say could only increase our chances of finding him. Please."

Linda bit her lip in an attempt to stop her tears as she looked down at her lap. She raised her hand and used the heel of it to wipe at her eyes, black marks on her skin from where her make-up had ran. After several minutes, she sniffled and looked up, her brown eyes empty and listless, but alight with determination. "What do you need to know?" she asked.

"We're going to have to perform a search of your property, as well as interview you," Hotch said, and she dismissively waved her hand, sniffling once more.

"Then...just...just search. But, please...please don't tell my son anything," she said quietly, her eyes returning once more to her lap.

"Of course," Emily said with a nod as the team turned to inspect the house, all except Morgan who came forward, sitting in the armchair opposite Linda.

"I'm Agent Morgan. Would it be alright if I ask you a couple of questions?" he said, leaning forward in his seat as he entwined his fingers together and propped his elbows on his knees. Linda nodded, sniffling once more.

"Does your husband have any friends who have a background in medical training?"

She thought for a moment, reaching into her pocket to pull out a pack of cigarettes. As she pulled one out, she looked at Morgan and asked, "You don't mind, do you?"

"Not at all," he said with a comforting smile.

Returning the gesture, though shakily, she lit the cigarette and took a drag, blowing out a puff of smoke before saying. "Um...Well, most of Heath's friends are police officers so I wouldn't...but then again, I called him once, to see when he was coming home, and in the background I heard like an announcement, like the ones you hear in hospitals. I asked him if he was at the hospital and he said it had something to do with work. That night I called one of my friends- Officer Parks- and asked if she was at the hospital and well...we got to talking and she said there wasn't any case that would involve a trip to the hospital."

"Did he ever explain this to you?"

She took another drag from her cigarette, shaking her head. "No, he didn't. I ugh...I thought for awhile there that he was having an affair with like a nurse or something but um...no, I never heard uh why he was there."

Morgan nodded. "I see. Mrs. Varney-"

"Linda," she corrected.

He smiled. "Linda, has your husband's behavior changed in the last two and a half years? Any remarkable differences?"

She stilled, the cigarette dangling in between her fingers. Her eyes looked around the room, and she coughed nervously before saying, "Well...um, yes I have."

"Can you explain the differences to me?"

"It's kind of um...ugh...awkward..."

"Linda, I understand how difficult it can be to discuss your sex life, but I assure you, everything you say is important to finding our missing agent. We will not judge you by what you say," he said and she relaxed slightly, breathing out deeply as she brought the cigarette to her lips and took a trembling drag.

A puff of smoke blew out before she said, "Well...the past two years or so he's been more...ugh...dominating."

"How so? Is he being rougher?" Morgan asked, trying to urge her on.

She coughed awkwardly again, avoiding eye contact as she said, "No. He...he wants me to pretend like...like I don't want it. Like he's..."

"Raping you?" Morgan asked, a brow raised high.

She nodded slowly, taking another drag. "I...I didn't think...it...I just..." she began, flustered as the tears started anew and she had to put her cigarette out in the ashtray beside her. Her hands raised once more to her eyes and she shielded them from view, her shoulders shaking.

"Listen to me, Linda," Morgan said strong and reassuringly. "This isn't your fault. Your husband...he isn't healthy. And it's not because of you or anything you did, and it doesn't mean there's anything wrong with you." He waited for her to nod before he continued. "Thank you for telling me all this. It means a lot to our investigation." He smiled warmly at her as the team continued their search of the house, his interview only just beginning.

xXx

**Author's Note:**** FUN FACT!: the setting for this story was actually inspired by a town I visit every summer (Phoenicia) My family owns a cabin up there and it's quite beautiful. And I'm visiting it this weekend! YAY! Bad news: No internet connection. Good news: Lots of peace and quiet and ****charming scenery to get the creative juices going and even though I won't be able to update, I hope to have a couple chapters completed up there- and may even finish the story. So hopefully I'll be able to finish this story this weekend and work on that one Harry Potter story I started before working on the sequel.**

**ALSO: with the way it's looking with the poll, I think I may actually do TWO sequels, alternative sequels. One sequel for one group, and another sequel for the opposing group. The votes have been pretty neck-to-neck so the possibility of two sequels is high- especially since I'm kinda digging the plot I have created for one. The summaries for both sequels will be posted on my profile and a preview for each one will (hopefully) be available for the Epilogue to this. Feel free to read one sequel, both sequels (they are written in a way that the story will flow time-wise and plot-wise) or no sequel. **

**Thank you all for such kind reviews! It's so great to know people are enjoying this story.**

**Chapter Sixteen: The Majority (Preview)**

"H...Hotch?" Reid whimpered, staring disbelievingly at the man before. He reached out, his hand quivering as he tried to grab hold of anything tangible- anything real about his boss. But he stepped back, the fabric of his suit jacket now inches away from Reid's fingertips. "Hotch?" he asked again, looking up to see hard brown eyes turned on him, a thin, tight-lipped mouth scowl on his face.

"You disgust me," he spat out, and Reid shrunk back, his hand snapping closer to him as if the man had turned into an all-consuming flame. His eyes widened at the words and he felt his throat close up with tears.

"Wh...what? Hotch...it's me," he said, his voice small and filled with tears. Why was he being so mean? Wasn't he happy to see him?

"You disgust me," he spat again, harsher and slower as he folded his arms across his chest. Reid shook his head. This wasn't happening. He was his family. How could he do this to him?


	16. Chapter 16

**Disclaimer:** **Criminal Minds and all its associated characters are property to CBS and no profit is being made from this story.**

**WARNING:**** I had some people complain about how gross the torture scenes were, so I feel I must warn you all that this chapter contains even worse torture. Prepare yourselves.**

**Chapter Sixteen: The Majority**

'_He appears mad indeed but to a few, because the majority is infected with the same disease.' –Horace _

Reid barely had time to wake up that morning, the grogginess still there when he felt a sharp, heated blade slide along his thigh. He hissed in pain, lifting his body up from the mattress, the restraints wrapped even tighter than he could ever remember around his wrists. He opened his eyes slowly, turning his head to see Andrew standing above him, a red hot knife in his hand.

He watched as the tip of the burning blade sunk into the skin of his thigh and he yelled out, the simultaneous burn and cut too much. He tried to pull his leg towards him, but found that, to his horror, his ankles were once more shackled down so tightly that his legs wouldn't budge. His throat constricted in terror and panic as the knife made hot, lazy lines up and down his legs, a trail of blood following.

"Stop," he whimpered, clenching his teeth around his lip and tasting metal. Andrew looked at him, the knife held in place before he continued moving it, bringing it closer and closer to his hip in agonizingly slow drags. Reid gasped as it reached the sensitive dip that connected his hip bone and groin, thankful when he felt the blade rise up from his skin instead of continuing further.

Blood dripped from the tip of the still-hot knife as Andrew placed it down on a small, wheeled table, turning to Reid with a stern yet unreadable expression. He swallowed, his thigh burning and searing as blood pooled from the cut and fell down the curves of his leg. He could tell by the hard, cold glint in Andrew's dark brown eyes that he was in trouble.

A lot of trouble.

"I...I'm sorry," he choked, trying to move away from the doctor but with nowhere to go. Fear flooded through him at what his fate would be and he regretted his escape attempt. He should have just stayed and trusted his team to find him.

"You're in a lot of trouble, Spencer," Andrew said as he grabbed a black briefcase and put it on the table. Unlocking it, he revealed a series of instruments that glinted menacingly in the fluorescent lighting. Unnerved, Reid watched as Andrew scrutinized each one before selecting a set of pliers, and swallowed, clenching his eyes as he prepared for the torture to come.

"This is for your own good," Andrew said, as he grabbed Reid's left hand and tightened his grip around the knuckles to separate his fingers. Reid's eyes widened, his hand instinctively pulling back. But the grip was too strong and Andrew had placed the teeth of the pliers around the nail of his pinky finger. The restraints rattled as he struggled to get away, to prevent even more pain from happening. He whimpered as the teeth clamped down securely, closing his eyes tight just as he felt a tug and a rip.

A scream tore through his lungs, the tender skin below his nail exposed, pulsing and covered in blood. His hand shook involuntarily as the pliers went to the next nail, the teeth encasing the tip of his nail once more.

"No, no, no," Reid begged as he tried to pull back, but just as he jerked his hand away, the teeth clamped shut and ripped a second nail out, pulling out another scream. He gasped, his breath taken away with the shout as the bloody tip of his finger curled into his palm, hissing when pressure was applied to the sensitive flesh.

When he felt the bottom tooth cool the skin of his middle finger, he flinched away, shaking his head furiously. "No! Please! Stop!" he growled, twisting and raising his body as he fought against the pliers that threatened to tear away another nail.

Andrew looked at him for only a moment before he quickly ripped the middle nail off as well, putting the pliers down as he stood over Reid and waited for him to stop his fresh round of screams.

His throat was raw and hoarse when he finished, and tears peeled hot and wet in his eyes as he looked at the doctor, his three bloody fingers trembling. He hurt so much! Everywhere! His body was throbbing in pain! His leg, his thigh, his fingers, his chest- his chest was on fire! Right below the curve in his collar bone, slightly to the right, there was a sharp, burning pain. Sutures pulled the red, irritated skin taut and he suddenly became aware of the fact that that was where he had been shot.

By Varney.

He whimpered, the betrayal eliciting renewed feelings of hurt, anger, self-hate and regret. He had been so stupid! He had ignored the obvious. He allowed this to happen. He deserved what he got. Chains rattled lightly as he shook with tears, trying not to voice the sobs aloud for Andrew to hear.

Screaming because of pain was logical- it was a response to stimuli.

Trying to get away was logical- it was the self-preservation mechanism of the human psyche.

Shaking and flinching was logical- it was a learned response from the effects of stimuli.

But crying out loud wasn't logical. He would not give Andrew the satisfaction of knowing that he broke him, reduced him to tears. He would not let him hear his sobs- seeing them was one thing. But hearing them made them real and he couldn't give him that right. Andrew didn't deserve to see _and_ hear Reid so vulnerable. He wouldn't let him.

His chest trembled with the sobs he held in- but still, he refused to let them loose. Andrew's voice entered his mind and he took a moment to still himself before looking up, defiance clear in his hazel eyes despite the tears that sat at the bottom.

Oh yes, he was far from broken.

"Let's try this again," Andrew said, flat and cold as he pulled his seat up next to the bed. He reached into the black briefcase and pulled out a different instrument- one that resembled a corkscrew. The tip of it was pointed more and the overall width of it was skinny, but it still had a sharp ridge that curled around it, twirling over the straight, pointed metal. A small lever sat on top of it, just below the wooden handle, and Reid watched with morbid curiosity as he placed the device directly over one of the long, bleeding slits from where the knife had ran down his thigh. The spiked tip poked at the sliver dividing his skin and he winced.

"What do you do for a living?"

Reid took a deep, steadying breath.

"I'm a special agent for the BAU," he said finally.

Andrew grabbed the lever and turned it, twisting the metal piece as it dug deeper into the wound, pointed tip going further down as the twisted blade sliced the surrounding skin. Reid howled, trying to pull his leg back only to remember it was securely tied down. After what felt like hours, the lever stopped and so did the screw, the cut now deeper and choppier in that specific area of his leg.

He panted heavily, sweat clinging to his hairline as drips slid down to his temple. His chest rose and fell in long, exasperated breaths, tension released as the pain stopped.

"What do you do for a living?"

He hesitated.

"I'm a special agent for the BAU," he said through gritted teeth, not willing to give up even if just in words.

The lever started again. The needle dipped down even further and the screwed edge ripped into his skin, peeling it back. He gasped and groaned, pain-induced nausea tightening his stomach as the amount of sweat increased, sliding down tendrils of brown curls and slipping down his neck. The lever stopped and he sighed in relief, the area surrounding the needle torn and bloodied with skin pulled away from the original slice.

"What do you do for a living?"

"I...I'm a...special agent...for the B...BAU..." he panted out as he struggled to regain his breath, his heart beating hard and quickly against his ribs. Stomach and intestines rolled over each other as bile rose in his throat and bells rang off in his ear, a sheen of sweat covering his face and neck.

The lever moved.

The curved edge scissored the skin even more so, disconnecting small pieces from his thigh as the needle dug down even further. And when it hit something solid and chiseled against his bone, the bile rose in his throat but stopped, the throat muscles too constricted too push it forward. He coughed and sputtered, his air passage blocked off as his chest heaved, trying to give the bile the momentum it needed. But it wouldn't move and he continued to choke on it, tears filling his eyes again as dizziness from the asphyxiation clouded his brain.

He barely registered his wrist coming free from it's restraint as he was rolled onto his side and lifted slightly, the bile pushing upward and coming out in sputtering coughs over his mattress. The dark, putrid smelling substance slid down his chin and burned his throat as he tried to breathe deeply, recovering from the momentary lack of oxygen.

But just as quickly as he was released and moved to his side, he was pushed back down and tied in once more. The pointed metal of the corkscrew-like device settling over the slit, two inches up from where it burrowed a deep hole only minutes before. Andrew had every intention of repeating this process again.

"What do you do for a living?"

His throat inflamed and raw from the vomit, he could only wheeze out a weak, "BAU."

Lever turned.

Curved edge sliced.

And Needle dug.

Reid's mouth opened in a silent scream, unable to force any noise. His back arched off the mattress and tears and sweat mixed together. He felt so sick, so pained. Every part of him was shaking from the blood loss and he was sure his body was almost blue with the poor circulation. His lips and teeth chattered together and his thigh...his thigh was burning. Cut off pieces of his skin sat in the pools of blood that slicked his thighs and he wasn't sure how much longer he could go before he passed out.

"What do you do for a living?"

He didn't even know he stopped working the screw down. He couldn't tell which pain was ongoing and which was old anymore, he was so overstimulated.

"I work..." he stopped himself. The pain needed to stop. The blood loss needed to stop. He wasn't doing this because he believed it- he was doing it because he needed it. "I'm a mental patient at a psychiatric ward," he breathed, relieved when he felt the cool metal pull away from his wound. Knowing the pain was finally over, he fell into a deep, deep sleep.

xXx

Reid groaned as the blindfold was removed and the cuffs undone so that he could be rolled onto his back. He growled as his sore backside was pushed roughly down on the mattress, tears prickling his eyes as he looked up at Andrew.

"Please, make him stop," he whispered hoarsely, his throat torn and raw from screaming. Andrew looked back at him, almost sadly, as he pulled the blanket up over Reid, covering his shaking form. Reid grimaced when the blanket stuck to his thighs, glued in place by the blood and semen.

Disgusting. He felt disgusting. Dirty. Humiliated. Ashamed. Used.

No matter how many times it happened- how many chances he had to get use to it, the feelings never changed. He felt just as bad as he did the first time, each time. The feelings didn't go away, didn't get better. He didn't get more accustomed to it.

And that was what he hated the most. He couldn't just let it go, or ignore it. He had to relive it over and over again.

"I'll let you get some sleep," Andrew said, standing to leave but was stopped by Reid gripping his wrist, pulling him back. He looked at his patient expectantly, a graying eyebrow raised in question.

"Please," Reid whispered again, just barely audible. "Please make him stop."

Andrew sighed as he shrugged his arm out of Reid's grasp. "Make who stop?" he asked.

Reid's eyes widened and he shook his head, tears spilling out his eyes and down his cheeks. "Varney. Make him stop," he whispered.

"There's no such man that I know of named Varney," Andrew said.

No. He was lying. He had to be. Varney was real- Varney had been in the room not even ten minutes before. Andrew was lying to him.

"Yes, there is," Reid argued, his lower lip quivering. "He was just in here."

"No one was just in here, Spencer. It's just you and me," Andrew said, turned and leaving before Reid could say anything else.

Reid's body shook with sobs as he squeezed his eyes shut, as if it would block out the whole situation. Varney was real, Varney was real...he was in too much pain for Varney to not be real. Andrew was lying. Andrew was just trying to make Reid doubt himself. Andrew wanted Reid to think he was hallucinating, think he was going to go insane. And this was just an endeavor to make it happen. But he wouldn't let it happen- he wouldn't.

Varney was real.

His team was real.

And they were going to find him.

This thought calmed him- thinking of his team working so hard to find him. He imagined that they were interviewing everyone and everything they could, searching everything they could get a warrant for, and knocking down any doors they had to. He imagined them sitting around the table in the Board Room, a white board in front of them as they worked at two in the morning, drinking coffee like it was water.

His body and mind relaxed, the thoughts soothing him and disassociating him from the bed he was cuffed to, the abuse he was subjected to. Thinking of the investigation brought some sort of facsimile of peace to him, and he thought about how they handled his disappearance, what they might've done.

Well, first they would have gone to the crime scene. They would have examined his bag and his destroyed gun, and then sent samples of the blood from where his leg shattered to forensics.

Then they would go over his case file, comparing it to the other victims to ensure that the victimology matched up. They would have found some discrepancies- after all, Andrew had told him that he was different from the other victims and surely, the team would've found why.

He lied like that for what had to have been an hour, his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling slowly- looking for all the world as if he were in a peaceful slumber. But his mind was working, creating scenarios about the case and imagining each step they took, and were taking. It was calming, and it worked to keep his mind away from the pain and the cause of the pain. It worked until he heard an all too familiar voice sneer at him.

"You disgust me."

His eyes shot open, looking around the dark room. It was an amazing thing really, that his fear of the dark could be pushed aside when his mind was so troubled by a million other things. But when the voice spoke, disturbing his serenity and alerting him to a second presence in the room, his fear came crashing into him. Shadows building in the corners, no light to guide him. He felt suffocated by the blackness all of a sudden, and his mind created monsters out of the innocent, darkened corners. Monsters that looked suspiciously like the two men who visited his room daily. He hated not knowing what was around him and the compromising feeling he felt of not being able to see.

But when the voice spoke again- a clear and cold curse of _'You disgust me'_- Reid turned towards and found that Hotch stood only half a foot away from him, his tall, domineering frame hovering over the bed. His eyes were hardened, black instead of brown and his lips were pinched tightly together. But still, the flood of happiness swam through Reid and he broke out into a faltering smile, not really wanting to trust his eyes.

"H...Hotch?" Reid whimpered, staring disbelievingly at the man before. He reached out, his hand quivering as he tried to grab hold of anything tangible- anything real about his boss. But he stepped back, the fabric of his suit jacket now inches away from Reid's fingertips. "Hotch?" he asked again, looking up to see hard black eyes turned on him, a thin, tight-lipped scowl on his face.

"You disgust me," he spat out, and Reid shrunk back, his hand snapping closer to him as if the man had turned into an all-consuming flame. His eyes widened at the words and he felt his throat close up with tears.

"Wh...what? Hotch...it's me," he said, his voice small and filled with tears. Why was he being so mean? Wasn't he happy to see him?

"You disgust me," he spat again, harsher and slower as he folded his arms across his chest. Reid shook his head. This wasn't happening. He was his family. How could he do this to him?

His lip quivered as he whispered the name again, stopping when he heard another voice, coming from the foot of his bed, yell at him.

"You're so _weak_," Morgan hissed, and Reid jumped at the venom his normally deep, silky voice contained. He turned to the man- one of his closest friends- and swallowed, hating the way he stood with his hands balled into fists at his side, hatred etched into his dark face. He shook his head, tears prickling his eyes and stinging his lower lid.

"No, you're not real. You're a hallucination," he murmured, wanting desperately to close his eyes to the ghostly deceit that surrounded him. But he couldn't. He was too fascinated by his minds projected delusions and too happy to finally see his friends- if only an illusion of them- that he had to look, had to drink in their forms. It didn't matter the harsh things that they were saying- they were his family. And they weren't real. His family would never be this cruel to him.

"For a boy genius you sure are stupid," JJ sneered from behind Hotch, her lips curled in disgust and her nose turned up at him. He felt his throat close together as he swallowed, repeating the mantra over and over in his head.

"You're not real, you're not real..."

He closed his eyes now, their forms memorized behind his lid for safekeeping, and tried to block their words out. But the voices grew louder and more venomous, the voices of Emily, Rossi and Garcia jumping in, taunting him.

"You disgust me."

"You're so weak."

"For a boy genius you sure are stupid."

"No one even likes you- you're so irritating!"

"You can't do anything but recite facts!"

"You're useless to this team. We don't care if we even find you."

His ears burned, their insults like fire when said in their voices. His eyes squeezed shut tighter and sweat slicked his forehead as he murmured louder and louder, hoping to rise over their words. They weren't real, they weren't real, they weren't real...

_'Wasn't it possible that they were never real to begin with, if they aren't real this time?' _Reid thought before he could stop himself. And the second the idea entered his mind, the voices ceased and he was left alone.

xXx

"Morgan, what did you find out from Mrs. Varney?" Hotch asked as the group gathered outside the small house, a crew of local police officers taking over the search. Linda and Shawn sat outside as the youngest family member, Varney's seven year old daughter, Lilly, picked flowers for the 'kind lady'- the kind lady being JJ who had escorted the girl from school to her home shortly after they came to the family's home.

Morgan shrugged his broad shoulder as he crossed his arms. "Well, she told me some interesting facts about their sex life. I think it's safe to assume that Varney's the one raping the victims, as well as dumping the bodies. He doesn't hold the respect for them that his partner has," he said.

"So, why are they partners? There doesn't seem to be a dominant-submissive pattern to this partnership, so why are they even working together? The partner clearly sees the victims as patients while Varney sees them as objects," Rossi said, and Hotch turned back to Morgan, a new question on his mind.

"Did she say anything about a friend of his that might have had medical training?" he asked.

Morgan's eyes flew up to the top of his head as he thought for a second before saying, "No. She did mention though that she called him once when he was at a hospital. He never told her why he was there, and she thought that he was having an affair with a doctor or nurse."

"What if the partners a doctor?" Emily suggested, cocking her head to the side as she bit her lip.

"But Reid's profile-" JJ started, only to be interrupted by Rossi.

"A profile is based on precedent. So, it's possible that our UnSub is a doctor," he said.

Hotch nodded slowly, adding, "It's unusual, but possible. Likely even, considering the fact that we've gone through our list."

Emily's eyes widened with a new thought, extending her hand out as she pointed with emphasis. "That's how he knows that the victims he selects match his criteria! This is a small area- doctor's probably have shared files. Our UnSub- Varney's partner- must use his access to these records to pick his victims," she explained.

"And Reid's file was added after the car accident," Hotch said, realization dawning on him.

"So, our guys a doctor. That doesn't narrow it down much," Rossi said, shaking his head.

"Yeah, and anyway, how would he know they're personalities were his type? You don't put that in a medical file- it's irrelevant. And what doctor has time to stalk people long enough to get an in depth understanding of who they are," Morgan suggested, placing his hands on his hips and shaking his head.

JJ gasped, her hand flying to her mouth as he blue eyes widened. That day- the day Reid was discharged- a doctor talked to her about him. Asked her questions. Asked about his personality.

"Oh my god," she muttered, all color draining from her face as she shook violently. It was _her_ fault. She was the reason he knew Reid was his type- it was all because of her!

"JJ, what's wrong?" Emily asked, leaning over to place a hand on her shoulder.

"It's...it's my fault," she mumbled, tears sliding down her pale cheeks.

"What do you-" Emily began, but JJ looked up, her blue eyes filled with guilt, sorrow and pain. _She_ did it. _She _sealed his fate.

"The doctor...at the hospital...his discharge...I..." she tried to explain, but her body was convulsing too much, her chest rising and falling in rapid succession with her breaths. She couldn't breathe. She felt dizzy. She felt sick. Everything was spinning. _Why did she answer his questions?_

Steadying hands reached out to her, and she heard Hotch give her a command. What did he say? Blood was rushing too fast in her ears- she couldn't hear him. He sounded muffled, like cotton covered her ears and he tried to tell her something from yards away. But he spoke again and she heard it, his voice a low, deep timbre as he said, "Breathe. JJ, relax, just breathe. Okay."

She nodded, trying to follow his instructions. Breathe in, breathe out. For several minutes she stood there, focusing on her breathing, trying to calm her heart which was beating too fast and her hands which were shaking too much. Relax. Breathe. She told herself over and over again that she needed to be calm, needed to find Reid. And in order to do that, she needed to tell them. Needed to be calm. Be calm.

Be calm.

"JJ? What were you trying to say?" Hotch asked, his hand holding onto her upper arm to support her.

She took a final, deep and gulping breath. "When...when Reid was discharged, this doctor talked to me. He...he asked me about him. Questions about how he responded to people. And I...oh God, I answered! I told him that he was awkward and reserved and an observer...I...I told him everything!" she yelled, crying heavily with the guilt. She practically handed Reid to him!

"What was his name? JJ, you need to tell us?" Rossi said.

Her head swam. What was his name? She couldn't remember! She gave Reid away on a silver platter and she couldn't even remember the doctor's name! Her mind cursed at her, telling her that Reid would remember it. He would even remember the exact outfit the doctor wore! But Reid wasn't here- because of her.

Suppressing her reprimanding thoughts, she thought back to that day. But as hard as she tried, she couldn't remember his name. It seemed so long ago, so insignificant. But she did remember one thing. Would it help?

"He was his discharge doctor," she said, turning her eyes to everyone. "I can't remember his name, but he was his discharge doctor. I...I am so sorry."

"I'll call Garcia, see if she can find it," Morgan said as he stepped away from the group, his cell phone out as he hit her speed dial.

Hotch turned to her, his brown eyes locking onto her blue ones as he continued to support her unsteady form. "Listen, it's not you fault, JJ. You didn't give him any information he wouldn't have found out anyway. Any one of us would have done the same. No one would have suspected him, alright," he told her and she nodded, not believing her words. _'Liar,'_ she thought, knowing that her boss was too suspicious of everyone to do what she did. But she let him lie, welcoming it almost as she pushed her guilt away. She needed a clear head. Needed to focus.

Morgan returned, saying the information before he even came to a full stop. "Dr. Andrew Wright. Home address was sent to the GPS," he said. Without even a word of instruction given, they divided into groups of two and ran to the cars, hoping that this would be where they found Reid.

xXx

**Author's Note:**** It's a cliffhanger, but at least it's a good one! The team is so close now. But will they make it in time? Thank you all for you kind reviews and whatnot! Let me know your thoughts, opinions and suggestions. And don't forget to vote! **

**The next chapter won't be uploaded until Sunday or Monday, unfortunately, but hopefully the story would have been completed by then. **

**Chapter Seventeen: Suffer with the Body (Preview)**

"This is it!" Hotch called to Morgan, who pulled to a screeching stop outside of the home, shrouded in large, evergreen trees. The two jumped out, vests tightened around their torsos as they aimed their guns parallel to the ground, inching forward carefully as they were joined by JJ, Emily and Rossi.

"Rossi and I will go out back. JJ, Emily, Morgan- go into the house. Reid's probably hidden in a basement or something- somewhere where the UnSub could set up a hospital room. Be careful. Move out," Hotch said as he and Rossi headed to the back of the home, shielded from view from the street by wide trees.

Morgan turned to his group, nodding as he approached the door, weapon raised. JJ and Emily stood behind him as he raised his leg and kicked in the door. He poked his head in and looked around before turning to them and nodding his head once. Entering with the two on his heels he looked for a door to a basement- a door to Reid.


	17. Chapter 17

**Disclaimer:** **Criminal Minds and all its associated characters are property to CBS and no profit is being made from this story.**

**Chapter Seventeen: Suffer with the Body**

'_We are not ourselves when nature, being oppressed, commands the mind to suffer with the body.' –William Shakespeare_

"You disgust me," Hotch sneered and Reid glared at the form. He wasn't sure how long he had been sitting there, having insults slung at him by his hallucinations. But it was irritating him, the words becoming less hurtful and more of a nuisance.

"You are weak," Morgan said again and Reid huffed in anger.

"Shut up," he growled to them as he turned his head into his pillow, closing his eyes tight.

"You're such a wimp."

"You're only good for statistics."

"Can you even do anything other than read?"

"You're pathetic!"

"I said SHUT UP!" he shouted once more, louder as his blood boiled with rage. Why wouldn't they leave him alone? Couldn't they just let him be? He slammed his head down into his pillow angrily as he he squeezed his shoulders, trying to cover his ears with the soft cushion and block out the noise. But it didn't help. The cruel words and taunts just kept getting thrown at him.

"You're such a loser."

"We can't stand you."

The voices kept gathering and collecting, growing stronger and more prevalent than he ever thought possible. They talked over one another- and even so, each phrase was heard in perfectly clarity. Hotch was leaning over him, shouting in his face, and Morgan grabbed onto the rails of his bed, shaking him. Rossi was at the foot of his bed, pointing to each and every wound and declaring them a sign of weakness while JJ, Garcia and Emily hurled nasty comments over Hotch and Morgan's shoulders.

He looked up at them, bags deep and purple under his eyes. He just wanted sleep- just wanted them all to go away. Forever.

"Leave me alone," he demanded, but they didn't.

They're faces moved in closer, their words grew louder and the bed shook harder and faster. They breathed on him, making his skin crawl and him shiver with the sensation. They were surrounding him, getting too close for his comfort and sanity. Couldn't they understand that he just wanted them to leave? Just wanted them to go away?

His thigh ached, the gauze that wrapped around it already bled through; deep red circles, blooming out like roses, blotched the white surface. His skin itched, the mangled slice that ran all the way up from his knee to his hip felt like it was being torn apart, despite the sutures that held it in place. The searing soreness was only a constant reminder of what he really was. But not even the pain provided a decent enough distraction from the hallucinations.

The voices filled his room, echoing in his ear and disturbing his thoughts. He couldn't even think! Couldn't even concentrate on the pain that swallowed him up.

Arching his back, he yelled, "YOU'RE NOT REAL!"

The voices stopped as the six people pulled back, regarding him with a look of hurt and shock at his claim. JJ covered her mouth and Emily narrowed her eyes sternly at him as Garcia sniffed.

"How...how could you say such a thing, Reid?" Garcia asked, tears in her eyes.

"Yeah, man. We're your family?" Morgan added, a look of shame etched into his futures.

But Reid simply raised his chin, never breaking eye contact with Hotch as he said, "You're not my family. You're not real." He looked around at the rest of his team as he said, in a shaking voice, "And you never have been."

One by one, the ghosts disappeared.

xXx

"How are you feeling, Spencer?" Andrew asked as he walked into the room, the pill and bottle of water in his hand as he approached the bed. Reid looked up at him blearily, blinking sleep from his eyes as he shrugged.

"My thigh and chest hurt," he said after a second of consideration and Andrew nodded as he gave him the medication, which he readily took.

Andrew narrowed his eyes at him, pursing his lips together. He was being oddly...compliant. "Why do they hurt, Spencer?" he asked, waiting for his answer as the young patient looked at the wounds, his eyebrows furrowed as though he himself wasn't really sure.

"I...I don't know. I think I was trying to escape and an orderly stopped me," he whispered.

Andrew's brows raised instantaneously, unsettled by the answer he received. "Orderly? What do you mean an orderly?" he asked, moving the chair up against his bed and sitting down, immersed in what was occurring. Had he...had he really done it? Had he really broken Spencer Reid?

"Yeah...he was outside. I got there and he stopped me," he said slowly, as though speaking to a child. "Three days ago right?" Andrew nodded here and he continued. "I don't remember why I did. I think I was still delusional at the time. Trying to get back to my team or something stupid like that."

"Ugh yes, your ugh...team. Tell me about this team of yours again," Andrew prompted. Could this really be it? Had he succeeded? Or was this just another escape attempt? Propping his elbows up on the metal railing of the bed and leaning forward, he patiently waited for Reid to explain.

Reid bit his lip for a second as he said, "Ugh...what do you want to know?"

Andrew shrugged. "Do you miss them?" he asked.

Reid chuckled at this, his smile almost disturbing on his pale and bruised face. "How can I? They're not real. You know that," he said with a laugh and Andrew smiled as he snickered.

"Yes, yes I do," he conceded, eyeing Reid carefully. Something about all of this- his eyes, his tone- it all seemed too genuine.

"When's my next treatment team meeting?" Reid asked suddenly and Andrew looked at him for a moment before the words fully registered.

"Oh, um yes. Yes, the treatment team," he started, darting his eyes around the room as he thought fast. Was this really another trick? Part of him, a large part of him, didn't believe it was. But that didn't mean he would let himself be fooled twice. So instead, he decided to play the safe route and get straight to where he wanted to be. "You missed the meeting. Weren't lucid enough for it. But we've come to the agreement that we will perform electroshock therapy on you. Rewire some of what's going on in there. How do you feel about that?"

Reid looked away for a second as he considered the idea, chewing on his bottom lip. "Will it...help?" he asked after a moment, an eyebrow raised as Andrew nodded. "Really? Will I...will I be sane after?" he asked slowly and hesitantly, as though he didn't quite yet want to believe it. Sanity seemed so far off. He didn't think he would ever become sane after how in depth his world had become. Was sanity even an option now?

"Yes, Spencer. It will hopefully produce results."

"Hopefully?" he questioned sadly, as though it wasn't enough of a guarantee.

"It's one of our best options," Andrew said and Reid nodded.

"Okay then. I'll try it. I...I just want to be sane," he said with a slight, awkward laugh.

Andrew stared at him for a second, examining him with narrowed and confused eyes before whispering, "Don't we all."

He stood suddenly, clapping a hand on Reid's bandaged thigh softly as he smiled at him warmly, a look of pride hidden deep within his slightly wrinkled face. "I'll set it up now. I'll be back in about half an hour to prepare you for the procedure," he said and Reid smiled timidly, a little frightened by the idea but the nonetheless willing to give it a chance.

Anything to stop the voices.

xXx

"This better be it, Hotch," Morgan said as he sped down the road, his eyes not once looking away from the distance as he pressed even more on the accelerator. It seemed he couldn't go fast enough no matter how close to the floor the pedal became. He couldn't help but think that every second he spent in the car was another second that Reid spent with those monsters. And the thought only fueled him to press down even harder on the gas, causing Hotch to look over in mild concerned.

While he knew he needed to get to Reid as soon as possible, he also knew that getting into a car accident would not help him in the slightest. But he couldn't tell Morgan to slow down, not when a large part of him still urged him to go faster, yell that he was going to slow even though the speedometer had claimed triple digits.

He shot a look at the GPS, finding that, to his delight, they were only two miles from this doctor's home. Two miles from Reid...

His eyes returned to the street ahead that flashed by too quickly to even see. But when he heard the ding of the GPS, alerting them to the approaching destination, he shouted at Morgan to slow down- to prepare to stop. His heart was racing and his hands, shaking as he held his gun, were solid white. Did his entire body look like that? That unhealthy?

Regardless, he turned to the right and held his breath.

"This is it!" Hotch called to Morgan, who pulled to a screeching stop outside of the home, shrouded in large, evergreen trees. The two jumped out, vests tightened around their torsos as they aimed their guns parallel to the ground, inching forward carefully as they were joined by JJ, Emily and Rossi.

"Rossi and I will go out back. JJ, Emily, Morgan- go into the house. Reid's probably hidden in a basement or something- somewhere where the UnSub could set up a hospital room. Be careful. Move out," Hotch said as he and Rossi headed to the back of the home, shielded from view from the street by wide trees.

Morgan turned to his group, nodding as he approached the door, weapon raised. JJ and Emily stood behind him as he raised his leg and kicked in the door. He poked his head in and looked around before turning to them and nodding his head once. Entering with the two on his heels he looked for a door to a basement- a door to Reid

They passed through the living room, clutter free with overstuffed furniture, and passed the dining room, filled with worn down, country style dining sets. It was on the way to the kitchen, in the hall, that he saw the tucked in door, hidden in an alcove underneath the stairs.

"The basement," he breathed, turning to look at JJ as Emily rushed outside.

"We found it!" she called to the second group. Not before long, the team of five filled the tiny kitchen, Morgan standing in front of the door, prepared to break it in as the others stood with their guns readied. Raising his leg, he kicked the door in as well, too hard as it cracked from the hinges. But it didn't deter him in the slightest, he simply stepped onto the landing and walked carefully down the stairs, wanting to run and barge in. But he knew that wasn't a good idea, knew he needed to maintain the element of surprise.

xXx

Reid sat patiently in his bed, idly rubbing his wrists that were bruised from the cuffs. He had been grateful when Andrew untied him after performing a basic check up, happy when he was told he didn't need to be restrained again. He really did hate that the most- not being able to move or get comfortable.

With a sigh, he pushed himself to the edge of the bed and slowly lowered himself, wiggling his toes as they chilled with the cold linoleum. He hurt so much- he didn't even know why. He was pretty sure it had been during his escape but he couldn't remember the event exactly, not without it being tainted by the effects of a distorted reality. His mind had told him that the only injury he got from his escape was a shot wound from a police officer, but he snorted the idea away. He hated not being able to trust his mind, but really sometimes it was almost laughable what he thought up.

A police officer shooting him? How ridiculous! That was nearly as absurd as his imagined a persona.

A genius profiler? A child prodigy?

His mind had quite the imagination.

But then again, he supposed most schizophrenic minds were very imaginative in general.

He walked slowly over to the bathroom, wincing in pain. What did he do during his escape that beat him up so badly? Get mauled by a bear?

Laughing slightly at the image of a cartoon bear jumping out at him, he turned on the light and limped over to the sink, running the water as he looked at his reflection. Damn, he looked horrible. His face was pale and thin, large bags sitting beneath his hollow looking eyes. His hair was damp with grease and the curls were straightened into lanky, dark sections. He grimaced at this, running a hand through his damp locks and cringing at the gross, slimy feeling that lingered. If he did become sane permanently, he hoped his hygiene habits would improve.

Pulling his hand away, he dipped it under the running water and poured some soap into his cup palmed, rubbing away the remaining grease from his skin. Once that was done, he splashed some water onto his face, massaging the warm liquid in with a sigh.

Once he felt thoroughly cleaned- or as clean as he could without a shower- he looked up, yelling at what he saw reflected in the mirror. A gray face, long since dead, replaced his. The eyes and mouth sewed crudely with thick black thread, which stretched and separated as the eyelids fluttered apart, revealing pure whiteness beneath it. The grayish blue lips struggled for a moment before splitting open, the thread stretching even after the mouth opened as wide as it could.

"Spencer," the thing said and Reid whimpered in response, falling backwards on his already sore-bottom as he shuffled along the tile.

"Please just go away," he begged.

Gray hands reached out and grabbed the frame of the mirror, providing leverage for the corpse to pull himself up and out the reflective glass. Slender gray shoulders slipped through and then a skinny gray torso, scarred and burned from frequent abuse. The thing was terrifying and Reid could barely find his voice as he choked with fear. This illusion was far more disturbing- far creepier- than any of his others. This was down right scary.

"Please leave me alone," he tried again, watching as it stepped onto the sink and and then slid down, gray, burned feet settling on the tile. The light began to flicker, and he found himself gasping for air. "Nononono," he whimpered, watching as the lights quivered between on and off.

On.

Off.

On.

Off.

On...

The room lit up and Reid screamed. The corpses surrounded him- five of them standing around his trembling frame. They were all gray and tall- the shortest being just shy of six feet- and skinny, dead skin stretched over barely visible bones. Scars- stitched together- burns and other injuries covered the bodies as if they were a grotesque tattoo. Light brown hair fell into there entirely white eyes, black thread pulling loose from the lids.

Ten eyes looking down at him.

Ten feet moving closer to him.

Ten arms reaching out to him.

Ten hands grabbing at him.

The fingers brushed up his exposed skin, and he gasped at the chill. They were freezing, colder than ice but burning more than any fire ever could. He wanted to pull back, wanted to get up and run, but he couldn't. He was frozen in place- paralyzed. And they just kept moving closer, closing in on him and turning the air cold and dry with their breaths. He wrinkled his nose. They smelt like dirt and soil, as if they had just managed to pull themselves from the grave to torment him.

The light flickered off again.

And when it didn't turn back on, Reid screamed.

xXx

When the team came to the bottom of the steps, they saw that the basement was made out of two rooms, locked away behind closed doors, and a long corridor. Morgan turned back and made a motion that he would head to the door that was farthest down before cautiously stepping forward, walking on the balls of his feet to minimize his noise. He was followed by Rossi and Emily, who mimicked his motions and flanked either side of the door, backs pressed to the white walls as Morgan stood in front of it.

Ramming his shoulder into it, the door fell back with a _crack_ and the three jumped into the room, guns aimed at eye level as they examined the scene.

A startled Andrew turned to them, his tray of medical instruments falling to the floor in a thundering crash. His eyes were wide, and his mouth slack open as he looked between the three agents, his thoughts immediately jumping to Spencer. No! They couldn't find him! He was perfect! They couldn't take him away- not when he got so close!

"Hands where we can see them!" Rossi shouted, and slowly, Andrew obeyed, swallowing hard.

"What's the meaning of this, officers? You better hope you have a warrant," he said, not nearly as confident as he would've liked. He couldn't let them take Spencer...

"Where's your partner?" Morgan hissed angrily, ignoring the man. He wasn't sure which man he wanted to hurt most, but if his profiling instincts were correct, than Varney was the one who deserved the most pain.

Andrew opened his mouth in response but was interrupted by the very man in question.

"Hello, Agent Morgan," he said cheerily, a vindictive smile in place as he stood out in the hall, his own gun raised at the tall man.

"Drop the gun," Morgan demanded as he turned around, staring down his co-worker.

Varney chuckled. "Now, why would I do that?"

"Drop the-"

Morgan was cut off by a high-pitched scream, breaking and cracking as though the owner of the voice had a hoarse throat from repeating the action. But not even the choppy, brokenness of the notes was enough to hide the familiarity of it, one that drew the attention of Emily and Morgan and made their hearts skip a beat.

"Reid!" Morgan called, forgetting himself as he turned in the direction of voice and let his gun fall. Varney took the opportunity and fired off his own weapon, the blast deafening as the bullet launched at its target. Reflexes sharpened, Morgan threw his body into the door frame, and the bullet lodged into his shoulder instead of his heart.

He gritted his teeth and grimaced in pain, seething slightly as he reached up and held the bleeding wound, blood slipping in between his fingers. As Varney's lips raised in a triumphant smile, another blast sounded, followed by a bullet embedding itself in Varney's knee, instantly crippling the man.

Howling in pain, he fell to the floor, his joint shattered and bloodied as he reached for the gun he let slip. But before his fingers could wrap around the black handle, two barrels looked down at him, a thin plume of smoke emitting from Rossi's as it cooled from the bullet. Morgan, shoulder still bleeding and pulsating with pain, held the gun to the best of his abilities as Emily kept an eye on Andrew, unable to turn her back on one enemy in order to stare down another.

But despite the flood of pain he felt, his kneecap laying in pieces underneath his bruised and bleeding skin, Varney managed a quivering smirk as he evened his breath, trying to work through the hurt.

"I'm sure Spencer is having a ball in that room with your two other agents. He certainly seemed to be enjoying himself with that scream of his," he sneered, delighting in the way Morgan's eyes turned fiery with rage.

"Don't you dare talk about him!" he hissed, his lips pursing tightly as he shook furiously. His gun trembled with him, the pain and anger causing him to lose control over minor motion control.

But Varney made a look of mock hurt, scoffing as he said, "I can talk about him as much as I want! I know him far better than any of you do. At least, intimately."

As skilled as Varney liked to consider himself when it came to schooling his emotions, not even he could hide the look of pure shock that overcame him when such an injured man pounced at him. He grunted with pain as he was held in place against the wall, Morgan leaning all his weight painfully into him as he towered over the officer, his face inches away from him.

"You disgust me," he snarled, using his own knee to press into the broken knee of Varney. He hissed at the pressure, squinting his eyes as Morgan smirked, pressing his knee down even harder. "It feels completely different, doesn't it? Being on the other end of the power spectrum? I bet you don't like it do you?" He paused for a second to slam Varney into the wall again, knocking his damaged knee to the side as the man wheezed in pain. "Good."

"Morgan," Rossi said. Not turning around, he waited for him to continue. "Try not to beat him up too much. Don't get yourself in trouble for scum like him."

"I'm not making any promises," he mumbled, his thoughts not on the man he had pressed to the wall, but the one in the other room. The one who had screamed...

xXx

**Author's Note:**** This chapter was originally going to have more in it, but it was too long, so I separated it into two chapters. Probably screwed with my outline royally, but eh. Anyway, let me know your thoughts and opinions and thanks again to all those who have reviewed, favorited and alerted this story. I also feel the need to say this again: NO CHARACTER DEATH OR IRREPARABLE REID!**

**ALSO! Guess who went swimming at the Flats and lived? This girl! Though I was disappointed that Matthew Gray Gubler wasn't there...**

**Chapter Eighteen: The Terror of Madness (Preview)**

"Go away," Reid said sharply, turning away from JJ even as she reached out to him, her blue eyes filled with tears and shining with relief. But at his words her face fell and she felt a fresh round of tears sting her eyes as she looked up at Hotch and then back to Reid, trying to reach out once more. He shuffled away from her, folding his arms stubbornly across his chest. Did he really mean that? Was he mad at her? Mad at them, for not coming sooner?

No, that couldn't be it. Reid didn't hold grudges, and he especially wasn't so callous and spiteful. Biting her lip and stifling her tears, she leaned forward tried again, lowering her voice as she spoke.

"Spence, it's me-" she started, but he jumped up, standing suddenly- though wobbly- he balled his fists at his side as he growled ferociously, tears falling down his pale cheeks.

"Leave me alone!" His face struck a pained expression, and just as quickly as he stood, he dropped down to his bottom, curling his knees tight against his chest. He grabbed locks of hair tightly as he said in a voice broken by tears, "You're not real."


	18. Chapter 18

**Disclaimer:** **Criminal Minds and all its associated characters are property to CBS and no profit is being made from this story.**

**Chapter Eighteen: The Terror of Madness**

'_To think that the spectre you see is an illusion does not rob him of his terrors:it simply adds the further terror of madness itself - and then on top of that the horrible surmise that those whom the rest call mad have, all along, been the only people who see the world as it really is.' –C.S. Lewis_

Hotch and JJ watched as Morgan and the others prepared to break down the door furthest down before doing the same with their door, Hotch running into it and slamming all his weight against it. The hinges cracked and after a creaking second, the door slid open, and Hotch and JJ jumped into the room with their guns raised. But when they saw that it was empty with only furniture occupying the space, they slowly let their arms rest by their sides, a strong grip still on the handle of their weapons.

"Is this..." JJ tried to say as she looked around the room with glistening eyes. Her lower lip trembled and her face was pulled into a look of pity and disgust. "Is this where they kept them?" she finally asked, turning to Hotch who had walked over to the bed, restraints swaying. The metal cuffs clinked gently against the metal railing, dried, copper looking blood staining the inside. The mattress of the bed was thin and pressed down, a sizable indent in the center. He swallowed when he saw the amount of dried blood on the sheets and pillow case- some darker than others as though they had occurred more recently. Yellowing stains from perspiration sat on the pillow case as well, the pillow flattened from what appeared to be near constant use.

Anger welled up in him. What had Reid lived through in the last week? Would he ever be the same? The guilt that had been following him ever since Reid's initial disappearance rocked through him and he nearly fell back with the intensity. How could he have been so careless? How could he have let this happen?

"Hotch, someone's in there," JJ whispered as she pointed towards a door on the wall opposite the bed. The door was cracked open very slightly and a thin sliver of white light fell through. A voice, hushed and hurried with fear, was coming from behind the door in panicked whispers and Hotch stepped closer, trying to hear the words being said.

"Please just go away," the voice begged and his ears perked up. That voice...

He never heard it sound so broken, so hopeless. But there was not a doubt in his mind: Reid was right behind that door.

As the same realization came over him, it dawned on JJ as well, who made to rush forward and through the door but was stopped by a hand on her arm. She looked up at her boss, questioning his actions with her eyes until he said, "Someone's in there with him. We can't just barge in."

After a second of internal battling, she nodded, just as Reid spoke again.

"Nononono," he whispered and she clutched her gun even tighter.

"We need to get to him _now_, Hotch," she said tersely and he nodded, raising his gun as she did the same.

"Kick the door. I'll try to get an aim on whoever else is in there and stop them so you can get Reid. Got that?" he ordered and she nodded. "Count of three. One..."

Whimpering could be heard now, but he blinked it away. Protocol. Training. He called on all of it to keep his head clear.

"Two."

Heightened whimpering, hitched breathing. He was in pain.

"Three!"

JJ pushed the door open and Hotch jumped in, his gun clattering to the floor as his eyes widened at the sight before him. Reid sat in the center of a bathroom, his hand raised over his eyes with the fingers splayed so he could alternate between seeing and not seeing. His left knee was drawn loosely into his chest while his right leg was stretched out in front of him, wearing a plaster cast that added an extra inch to his lean appendage. But it was not so much the broken position that Reid sat in that had startled the man so much so as to drop his means of defense. It was the way he looked- the way he had changed.

His bones were visible, certain joints pointing out sharply as the white skin pulled over them- skin that was too pale and tinged with an unhealthy sheen of yellow. His curls were laden with grease and dried blood and his bony fingers- bonier than ever- shook in front of his face as he noticed three missing fingernails. But the injuries didn't stop with the missing fingernails or the broken leg. He was covered in ominous looking bandages, blood seeping through. The sole of his feet were scabbed over, the skin rising and wrinkling with healing burns. His shin was stitched, his thighs were covered and bleeding, his wrists were bandaged from the cuffs and his exposed arms were littered in fading scratch marks- though Hotch suspected that that was more Reid's doing than anything else.

As Hotch made to move forward, Reid's hands fell and he looked up, the emptiness in his eyes causing a double take. Once vibrant hazel eyes, green with flecks of amber, were now dead, a dull light brown color. The look in the eyes was so feral- fear, like an animal trapped in a corner- and misted over as though Reid were reflecting on something, something that haunted him. Beneath his eyes were purple swollen bags that puffed out, making his thin face look disturbingly skinny, cheekbones and chin protruding out as the cheeks themselves seemed to cave inward.

He looked so defeated.

"Reid," he breathed, aware of how out of character he sounded but not truly caring. He had let him down. He had let him be broken. He had finally found him, only to have arrived too late.

Reid's eyes widened and his mouth opened in a wide 'O' as he let loose a horrifyingly high scream, his throat too sore to maintain a pitch as it dropped and rose several octaves. But the scream wasn't in response to Hotch- he didn't even seemed to have noticed him. It seemed more like Reid was screaming at something else. Something only he could see.

He looked up to the ceiling, shaking as tears shined down his cheeks. And then he blinked, startled by something as his face scrunched up and he screamed again, more desperate and pain filled than the last. And as though the scream alerted JJ to the world around her, she jumped and looked around her briefly, her eyes finally settling on Reid.

"Spencer!" she shouted as she moved forward, and he fell back, turning with wide eyes to JJ. For just a moment, familiarity flickered into his dead eyes, but soon vanished as it was replaced with fear, anger and contempt. But she didn't seem to notice. She simply fell to her knees, smiling sadly at him as her cheeks, red and blotchy, glistened.

"Go away," Reid said sharply, turning away from JJ even as she reached out to him, her blue eyes filled with tears and shining with relief. But at his words her face fell and she felt a fresh round of tears sting her eyes as she looked up at Hotch and then back to Reid, trying to reach out once more. He shuffled away from her, folding his arms stubbornly across his chest. Did he really mean that? Was he mad at her? Mad at them, for not coming sooner?

No, that couldn't be it. Reid didn't hold grudges, and he especially wasn't so callous and spiteful. Biting her lip and stifling her tears, she leaned forward tried again, lowering her voice as she spoke.

"Spence, it's me-" she started, but he jumped up, standing suddenly- though wobbly- he balled his fists at his side as he growled ferociously, tears falling down his pale cheeks.

"Leave me alone!" His face struck a pained expression, and just as quickly as he stood, he dropped down to his bottom, curling his knees tight against his chest. He grabbed locks of hair tightly as he said in a voice broken by tears, "You're not real."

"But Spence-" she began, desperate for him to take back his words. To forgive her. To be Reid again. But Hotch silenced her, her name calmly spoken and echoing off of the tiled walls.

"JJ," he said, his eyes planted on Reid with an indiscernible expression swimming through their brown depths. He looked unfazed, cooled and professional as he always did. It sickened her, that he could look at their friend in the state he was in and not even bat an eye. But before she could even think of the proper words to say to him, he looked at her, the light hitting his eyes in just the right way to highlight the thin layer of tears that sat on his lower lid, unshed. Her mouth fell and she gaped openly, her words stuck in her throat. He was crying?

She couldn't question it any longer as Hotch looked back to Reid, displacing the light and making it seem as though the tears had simply been sucked back in and he remained impassive. His voice was only barely above a whisper as he said, "Leave him alone."

Her words came to back to her, tears be damned! She jumped up, shooting him a deathly glare as she said, "Leave him alone? You want me to _leave him alone_? Haven't we _left him alone_ enough? How can you be so heartless as to just stand there is beyond me and now you want me to sit back and twiddle my thumbs as Reid sits by himself, in pain and hating us? I'm not like you, Hotch. I actually have emotions and I actually care about him enough to not give into his trauma-induced demands!" Her voice rang with the finality around her words, the sounds and syllables echoing harshly off the sea foam green porcelain.

Hotch looked only mildly taken aback, his brows raised a quarter inch higher and his gaze turned once more to JJ, his lips parted just enough for them to be divided by a barely there black line. He stared at her for a minute, his features returning to their usual stoic place before he looked back at Reid, who sat with his back turned to them as he rocked himself gently in the fetal position. His fingers were clasped so tightly in his hair he looked about ready to pass out and his mouth was moving in quick intervals as he muttered over and over again.

"Not real. Just a delusion. Not real. Need to be sane. Not real. Just a delusion. Not real. Need to be sane..."

JJ followed her gaze, her heart breaking again as her eyes softened. Ignoring Hotch's demans, she made to move forward once more, stopping when she heard his words. The words that made her fall to the ground with tears and bury her face in her arms. The words that voiced the one fear she had that had been swimming around her mind for the past week.

"He's gone, JJ."

xXx

Morgan never felt as much satisfaction from cuffing a criminal as he did when he pushed Varney up against the wall and pulled his wrists together. He had vaguely been aware of a _pop_ that came from his shoulder and a gasp of pain that escaped the officer's lips, but he hadn't cared. He only cared about digging his knee into the back of Varney's injured one, shoving it into the wall as he clasped the handcuffs shut.

Once finished, he leaned in close, whispering into Varney's ear so that only he could hear he said, "You're lucky I want to be there for Reid. Otherwise I'd have no problem going to prison for you."

Varney snorted, wincing at the pain the action caused as it shook his body. "I don't see what's so special about the little brat," he wheezed out. "He's only good for a fuck or two but anymore and he stops fighting."

Morgan's eyes narrowed as fresh peels of rage spiked his adrenaline. He wasn't even aware of what he was doing when he tossed Varney down to the ground, straddling his waist as he threw punch after punch, bruising his face. Varney grunted and gasped with each blow, struggling as he tried to knock the man off of him. But despite having a wounded shoulder, Morgan's punches were fierce and unrelenting, his voice loud and dripping with toxicity as he spoke.

"You bastard! You don't even deserve to live!" he roared.

He didn't stop punching until Rossi grabbed him and threw him to the floor, knocking the breath out of him. He looked up at the older agent, dark brown eyes cold and dangerous as he shot Morgan a harsh look. Morgan returned the look though, his lips pursing as he slowly rose to a sitting position. He watched as Rossi bent down and grabbed Varney, picking him up carelessly as he walked over to the man. Morgan's body still receiving a rush of adrenaline and anger, he shook as Rossi said in a low, warning tone, "Don't pull that shit again."

He then turned to Emily, who had approached Andrew and was in the process of cuffing him when he said, "Back-up should be here. Let's get these two to a cell and then help Hotch and JJ." She nodded, and as she pulled out the silver cuffs that she kept on her hip, another scream rang out, startling her. She dropped the mechanism, the _clang_ of it hitting the floor intermingling with Reid's hair-raising yell.

And all hell broke loose.

Morgan growled as he pushed Rossi to the side, clearing the hall as he ran into the first room. _He needed to get to Reid..._

Rossi fell with a grunt to the wall as his grip on Varney gave way.

Varney took the opportunity and shoved Rossi even further down with his shoulder before chasing after Morgan, wincing every time his injured leg pushed off from the floor.

Emily looked out to the commotion that filled the corridor and her hold on Andrew slackened.

Andrew, feeling the release of pressure, pushed his weight backwards and knocked her into a a metal shelf of beeping medical equipment and sharp, glinting instruments.

She gasped in pain, her back landing with a _crack_ on the items as she fell into it, her head _thwacking _against a sharp, metal edge. Her eyes widened for a second before they fell to a close, slumping back as she fell into unconsciousness, blood spilling down her scalp.

Andrew reached to his waist and pulled out a revolver, examining it for a second before turning to look out in the hall. Rossi was pulling himself up, cursing as he watched Varney chase after Morgan. Andrew didn't even spare Rossi a lingering glance before raising the weapon and shooting it.

Rossi gasped, his eyes widening as he fell to the floor, clutching his abdomen where blood bloomed outward, staining his white shirt and slipping through his fingers. He looked up to his assailant, shock written all over his face when he saw Emily lying unconscious and Andrew standing over her, taking her gun and snapping it around his waist as he held onto the revolver. When had that happened? When was she knocked unconscious? When did Andrew pull out a gun? Everything moved too fast!

Andrew stood and sprinted out the room, pausing to look at Rossi for a second, regarding him slowly before saying in a deep and low voice, "Spencer Reid is mine." He rose his gun high above his head and then swung it down, knocking the second agent unconscious as blood continued to pool around him, his fingers coated in the substance from where they pressed into his stomach.

xXx

Hotch watched the scene for several long drawn out seconds before finally pulling away, listening to the earpiece as a local officer said that the back up had arrived at the house and were swarming the property, three ambulances and ten paramedics ready. But paramedics wouldn't be able to help Reid. His injuries were as taken care of as they could be- even Hotch knew that. They would only look at him, exchange glances about how bad the situation was, load him up in an ambulance and bring him to a hospital. At the hospital, he would be given a psychological evaluation. And from what he had seen since arriving, the results would not be good.

He looked back over at JJ, the initial shock of his words wearing off as she now sat with her arms wrapped around her knees, hugging them. She watched Reid continue to chant his phrase over and over, tears in her eyes.

"Not real. Just a delusion. Not real. Need to be sane. Not real. Just a delusion. Not real. Need to be sane..."

His eyes flickered over to Reid, following her gaze, but only for a moment as he found himself looking away. It hurt too much to see him like that. To know that it was his fault that he was like that. He couldn't stop himself from comparing the Spencer Reid he knew to the shell of Spencer Reid sitting in front of him. Seeing the two side by side in his mind created a wrenching motion in his chest. While Reid never was extraordinarily healthy looking- too pale and too skinny- this Reid made his former self seem like the picture of wellness.

He was torn from his thoughts when he heard people barreling down the hall and crashing into the room. Returning smoothly into his FBI persona, he grabbed his gun and pulled it back to the proper level, JJ doing the same.

"Stay with Reid," he said to her as he left the bathroom, walking into the room just in time to see Morgan fall to the floor, a handcuffed and bloody Varney, having thrown himself at the man, colliding into his back. The two grappled on the floor, a flying pile of limbs and profanity. Blood- from which man, Hotch was not sure- crept onto the tiles surrounding them and his eyes widened. So much blood. Too much.

Shooting the wrestling men a scrutinizing look, he saw that both were injured.

Both were bleeding.

Both were pale.

Both were lethargic.

Both were losing too much blood, too fast.

He needed to get them to stop fighting, needed them to stop speeding up their blood flow. Thinking and aiming as fast as he could, he pulled the trigger.

Whether by the work of karma, poetic justice, or just a well-timed shot, Varney, straddling Morgan as he worked his fingers around the man's neck, jumped at the sound of the gun and moved himself into a position to avoid the bullet. But as he rolled off the man, trying to open the agent up to the attack, the bullet that would've shot the back of his thigh instead embedded itself deep into his groin.

His eyes widened so much so that they seemed to jump out of his sockets as he hollered in agony, clutching to his profusely bleeding crotch as he rolled to his side, tears flowing fast and freely. While Hotch's knees involuntarily buckled as he watched the man writhe in excruciation, he couldn't help but feel an extreme sense of satisfaction. He had been hesitant about shooting in the first place, for fear that he would hit Morgan, but felt his opening was clear enough. And by God, was he happy he took it.

Morgan leapt from the floor, gasping as his airways opened up once more, giving Hotch a wavering smile.

"There is...no way...that could have...worked...out better," he panted, nodding with his head to Varney.

Hotch furrowed his eyebrows. "Where are the others? And Wright?" he asked.

"Unconscious," Andrew said, standing in the doorway as he held his revolver up, shrugging his shoulders as he added, "The one- the one with the beard- said something about back up coming, so hopefully they'll get them to paramedics on time."

Hotch, while initially startled by his sudden appearance in the room, stared at him, his brow furrowed. He...cared about their well-being? Why? He had no reservations with torturing and murdering people, but the idea of killing a police officer saddened him? This UnSub was truly like one they've never seen before. He was almost compassionate. Almost.

The fact that Reid sat in the bathroom, beaten and having lapsed into a stress induced psychotic episode expelled any compassion this man could honestly hold.

"There's nothing you can do for Spencer now. He's gone too far. You might as well let me keep him. He's mine now," Andrew reasoned and Morgan snorted in response.

"Like hell we will," he said.

Andrew opened his mouth to respond, but stopped as his eyes caught hold of Varney, groaning as he continued to hold his bleeding groin. He snorted out a chuckle as he said, "Serves him right, harming my patients."

Morgan's eyes widened as he turned to Hotch, confusion dominating both their faces. What was going on between these two UnSubs?

But at the moment, they heard JJ shout and all three men looked, turning to see Reid grab her shoulders and shove her down. Unsuspecting of the sudden assault, she fell backwards, landing hard on the ground with a groan as Reid ran past her on unsteady legs. Hotch reached out to grab him, but he flew past, dodging the hand as he slid to the floor, wrapping his arms around Andrew's waist. He buried his face in the lab coat, hiding himself away from the shocked expressions of his colleagues.

"It's getting worse," he mumbled, and Andrew patted his head sympathetically, smiling at Hotch and Morgan as their jaws dropped.

"I told you he was mine."

xXx

**Author's Note:**** I can't take credit for coming up with the idea to shoot Varney in the groin. The idea came from a reviewer, 68luvcarter. While it seemed more like a joke at the time, the poetic justice it would create was too tempting to resist. To all the Vengeful-Varney-Haters reading this story, consider that a present for the weekend of no updates, haha. **

**Thanks for all your reviews and whatnot! Present time!**

**Chapter Nineteen: Sanity's Spirit (Preview)**

"No!" Reid roared as Hotch wrapped his arms around his waist, lifting him up easily despite his attempts to be put down. He clawed at his arms with the seven nails he had as he kicked madly, flailing his legs out and hoping they'd connect with Hotch's shin hard enough that he'd let him go. But he didn't. He just held on tightly, digging his heels into the dirt to steady himself against Reid's struggles.

"Let me go!" he shouted, his struggles becoming desperate as the ambulance door closed and the vehicle took off, Andrew safely inside it.

He was gone.

His doctor was being taken away.

The only chance for sanity he had was being taken away.

And it was all their fault- the people who resembled his hallucinated team. _They_ took Andrew away from him. _They _held him in place so he couldn't get to Andrew. _They_ stopped him from getting better.

He yelled out in anger, throwing his head back with all other violent notions as he struggled even harder, now fueled by rage and fear. But just as before, Hotch didn't even seem bother by his movements and acted as though he were merely a petulant toddler who wanted freedom from an overbearing parent's hold. He became even angrier when Hotch turned him around, holding him at arm's length as he tried to speak to him.

"Reid, you have-"

"I hate you!" Reid roared, stopping the man in the middle of his speech, his mouth slung open.


	19. Chapter 19

**Disclaimer:** **Criminal Minds and all its associated characters are property to CBS and no profit is being made from this story.**

**Chapter Nineteen: Sanity's Spirit**

'_Facts by themselves can often feed the flame of madness, because sanity is a spirit.' –G.K. Chesterton_

The voices sounded so solid, so real.

And their bodies...

Reid couldn't believe how tangible they seemed! He was sure that if he let JJ reach towards him, let her grab him like she intended to, he would feel warm and soft fingertips. He was sure that he would feel her hair brush up against him, her breath against him...

That was why he couldn't let her touch him. He knew that if he did, he would be tricked once more into believing that she- that all of them- were real. And they weren't. They weren't real and it didn't matter how flesh and bone they seemed- they were nothing more than the creations of a diseased mind.

But he was afraid that her touch would be so comforting, and that he would fall into it and lapse back into the created fantasy of his. After all, the last time they felt so real was during his longest episode of insanity. His eyes widened with realization and he paused his mantra.

What if...what if that meant that he was about to descend into another, long episode? No! He couldn't! He was so close to sanity! How could he let it slip through his fingers like that? He looked up, chancing a glance behind his back at the two "agents" who stood there. JJ sat on the floor, hugging her knees to her chest as she stared down at them, crying quietly, while Hotch stood by the door, averting his gaze to everything but the people in front of him.

Andrew had to be back any second now. He had to be ready for the electroshock therapy treatment and at any moment he would waltz into the room, take Spencer to the machine, and after a _ZAP_ and some tingly sensations, he would be fine. He would be sane.

And he would never have to see or hear these illusions again.

He turned his gaze back and continued to rock himself, returning to his phrase once more. The second Andrew got back he would tell him it was getting worse. Tell him to help him right away.

He jumped when he heard several loud crashes, daring to look behind his back one more time. JJ was standing now, and both she and Hotch had their guns raised, prepared to deal with the crash that, like their presence, was probably imagined.

"Stay with Reid," Hotch said to JJ before leaving and the girl nodded obediently, moving closer to her charge as she slowly lowered her gun but still maintained a strong grip on it. She sat down, crossing her legs and looking over to Reid, her eyes widening.

He hadn't even realized he had switched into a different, less closed position until she spoke to him, her voice low and soothing.

"It's going to be alright, Spence," she said, smiling encouragingly. The wideness of her mouth and the way her lips pulled up so high seemed out of place on her sorrowful and tear streaked face. Her smile wavered and then fell as she continued to stare at him, mesmerized by the changes he had gained in a week.

His cheeks heated under her gaze and he had to turn his head away, looking down at his new seating arrangement. He now sat facing the door as opposed to the wall, but JJ blocked his full view of the room outside the one he now occupied. His left leg was curled under his body with his right extended in front of him. His two hands lay flat against the cool tile and he was leaning forward, the arms providing sturdiness for his upper body.

Once more he was drawn to his various injuries, wracking his brain as he tried to find an explanation for how he acquired them. A _reasonable_ explanation, as his mind was still trying to convince them that Andrew had given them to him. That was impossible. Andrew would never hurt him- he was his doctor. He was _helping_ him.

He hated not being able to trust his own mind. But hopefully Andrew would help him with that. And hopefully, he'd get here soon.

"What did he do to you?"

He looked up at the soft voice, and quickly realized that JJ wasn't speaking to him. Not directly. Weird. Even his own hallucinations were being introspective.

But as weird as it seemed and as much as he tried to tell himself that she was just a hallucination and nothing more, when he saw the fat, hot tear that slid down her throat, he couldn't help the way his chest constricted at the sight.

Figment of his imagination or not, she was beautiful. And the doleful look in her eyes along with the rapidly falling tears seemed to tarnish that. He wished he had enough control over his own mind to at least, if not make her go away, make her happy. Make her flash that pretty smile at him again and this time, have it stay. But as hard as he tried to make this occur, it wouldn't.

A tear slid down the slope of her cheek and down her chin, falling down to her covered chest. And the more he saw the tears, the more desperate he became. The more he wanted her to go away. Because he was afraid he would reach out to her, try to comfort him.

And if he did, and he felt how real she seemed, he might forget that it was all a clever trick.

So he refrained. He kept his hands flat on the floor as he watched tear after tear, focusing too hard on them as not even the seemingly distant sounds of gunshots broke through his concentration. But at the sound of the gun, she choked on a sob, squeezed her eyes together and ducked her head. And seeing that, the fact that she began to now shake with her tears, made the thin string of control he had, snap.

He raised one hand tentatively, gently touching her chin with the ends of his thin fingers and lifting her head upwards. Her eyes were opened, no longer squeezed tightly together as she looked at him, tears falling even more profusely down her cheeks.

His lip twitched. "Don't...don't cry," he whispered as he cupped her chin more firmly and wiped her tears away with the pad of his thumb, screaming at himself from inside his head. This was stupid! This was suicidal even! Making this connection, though simple, would only make him try to validate the solidity of her to the solidity of his fabricated life. He shouldn't have done it. He should've stopped himself. But when he started to pull back, she leaned forward, leaning into his hand as she closed her eyes- not in a strained way, but in a relaxing way. As though she were sleeping.

"Spence," she said softly, and somewhere, some part of him jumped at the name. _Spence..._

Andrew had only ever called him Spencer. In fact, she was the only one, even in his delusions, who called him that.

_Spence_.

He liked it.

He wiped away some more tears with his thumb, and noted that the tears were less frequent than they had been a second ago. Had he done that? Had he comforted her?

_'As if comforting an illusion is that difficult,'_ he thought with a snort. But nonetheless he continued to wipe away any tears that fell, rubbing small circles on her chin with his thumb when there were no tears. She felt so real. Her skin felt so smooth. He needed to stop- needed to pull away and remind himself that she wasn't actually there. But he couldn't.

"Spence, I missed you so much," she said.

He opened his mouth. What should he say to that? _'Go to hell? You can't miss me, you're not real?'_ Why did part of him feel the urge to return the statement, as if it actually mattered?

"I..." he started, but in that moment the voice he had been longing to hear spoke from the room outside.

"There's nothing you can do for Spencer now. He's gone too far. You might as well let me keep him. He's mine now," Andrew's voice said, floating into the bathroom.

"Andrew," he whispered and JJ's eyes shot open.

"Spencer?" she said, her voice strained.

He looked back at her and licked his lips. "I...I need to...you're not real," he mumbled, his thumb no longer moving as he let his hand go limp. He tried to pull his hand away but she grabbed it, shaking her head pleadingly at him.

"No, no! Spencer! I am real! Please!" she begged, crying fiercely. She was rubbing his hand inside hers, playing with each finger as though she were trying to prove just how real she was. But it didn't work.

"No," he said, then cleared his throat and said again, more assertively, "No. You're not."

He tried to pull his hands back from her so he could go see Andrew, get the treatment he needed, the treatment he wanted, but she held firm onto him, not letting go. Swallowing, he reared his elbows back and then shoved his hands forward, knocking her as she teetered on the balls of her feet. She shouted before she regained her balance, but he grabbed her shoulders and pushed down once more. She fell back this time, and he stood, bounding from the room as fast as he could.

His eyes barely saw Hotch in front of him. He only saw a hand reach out and, instinctively, he ducked. When he saw Andrew, he could feel himself lighting up with joy. Finally! He would get the treatment and it would all be over! No more questions, no more second guesses, no more self doubt. He would be free.

Feet slipped on the floor and his arms wrapped around Andrew's waist, pulling him close as he buried his face in the coat. His heart was trembling with the need to tell him everything. But he could only manage one phrase.

"It's getting worse," he mumbled, and he felt a thick hand pat his head.

"I told you he was mine." Reid felt and heard the words, Andrew's stomach vibrating as he spoke and he stiffened. Who was he talking to? The only people in the room were his team, and Andrew couldn't see them.

Dread filled him.

What if he was hallucinating Andrew too, and the real doctor was still in another room, oblivious to his need?

He was about to pull back, about to study this man to see how real he was, but stopped when he heard him whisper quietly, sadly to him as he sighed, "I'm sorry, Spencer."

He looked up, his brow furrowed as he opened his mouth to question him. But his answer came when Andrew wrapped an arm swiftly around his waist and lifted him up, as if using him as a shield. He gasped at the sudden movement, trying to wriggle free of his grip.

"Andrew, what are-"

The cool, round tip of the revolver's barrel pressed against his temple silenced him.

He swallowed, stilling instantly as his heart slammed back and forth, hitting his spinal column and his chest with each pulse. Why was he doing this? He was supposed to help him! Even for a hallucination, it felt so real. The way the gun chilled him seemed to palpable.

"Let him go, Andrew," Hotch demanded as JJ came running out of the bathroom, gasping at the scene. It took only a second of momentary shock before she raised her gun.

Andrew sighed. "I'm afraid I can't. Not unless you let me walk out of here with him, unharmed. If you can't promise me that, I'm afraid I'll have to shoot him and then myself," he said and Reid swallowed. This was a hallucination, right? He couldn't actually get harmed in a hallucination. He willed his body to remain calm, to understand that it wasn't _really_ in a life or death situation, but everything about him screamed to run. To fight. To do anything.

"Andrew, don't do this. You can't harm him. He's your patient, remember?" Hotch urged. "You took an oath to help him."

"I am helping him," he said.

Reid was conflicted. Should he do something? Try to stop him? Or would that only feed into the delusion? Would the best thing to do be to wait and remain still until the episode ended? Until the real Andrew came in and helped him?

His decision was made for him when he heard the click of a gun being prepared to fire. Without even thinking, he jerked his head back and to the side as he kicked his his legs, hooking his foot behind one of Andrew's knees and pulling forward. The older man's balance slipped and his knee gave in. He released his grasp on Spencer, dropping him to the floor with a _thud_ and groan as fell to his knees.

Morgan took the opportunity, shooting Andrew in the thigh. He hissed in pain, forgoing his gun in order to grab the bleeding wound. Hotch was behind him in an instant, hoisting him up as he made to pull him from the ground.

Reid panicked.

What if that was the real Andrew?

What if he was taking him away from him?

"No!" Reid shouted, jumping up and wrapping his arms around Andrew's leg. He needed him. He needed his treatments, he needed to get better. What would happen to him if Andrew never came back? Would he die? Would they lock him up in another hospital with uncaring doctors? Would he be forgotten about? What if none of the doctors knew how to fix him? What if they just pushed him to the side, keeping him alive but not really caring about how aware he was? No, they couldn't take Andrew away from him. Not when he was so close.

"Reid," Hotch said and he just tightened his grip.

"NO!" he said, more firmly.

"Spence."

He jumped, turning to look at JJ without undoing his grip, her voice soothing again and making him want to reach out to her. But he couldn't. He needed to hold on to Andrew. So he just listened.

"Spence, Andrew's hurt. He needs to see someone who can help him," she said as she knelt down and pushed some curls behind his ear softly. He flinched, unnerved by her hands, and she was forced to pull away with a grim smile as she realized he didn't want to be touched. "But Spence, he's hurt. He needs a doctor."

"He is a doctor," Reid argued, hating how childish his argument sounded. But really, what could they do? They weren't real.

What happened to someone if their captor was a ghost, he wondered. Would they disappear forever, never to be found? Or would they become a ghost themselves? Deciding he couldn't risk it, he held on tighter. JJ forced a smile on her face as she tried again.

"But he needs a doctor to help him. He can't help himself, and you know that. I know you do, Spence. You're too smart not to," she said and he swallowed. She reached out and placed a hand on top of his. Despite the cringe she received, she gingerly began to pry his fingers off from around Andrew's calf. Reluctantly, Reid let her, knowing he needed Andrew to get better in order for himself to get better.

But when he saw four new, unfamiliar people, three men and one woman, come in with two stretchers between them, he understood that they intended for Andrew to be taken somewhere to get better.

"Where is he going?" he asked, watching as two of the men set the device down and then hoisted Andrew onto it, cuffing his wrists down with attached restraints. He hated how panicked he sounded, how afraid he sounded. But he needed him to live! Didn't they understand that?

"He needs to go to a hospital," JJ said as the woman and the man left the room, a groaning Varney attached to a stretcher with his hands restrained as well.

"Can...can I go with him?" he asked, licking his lips.

_'Please say yes, please say yes...'_

"Not right now. We don't have enough room for you," she said, averting her eyes to Hotch. He shrugged his shoulders, opening the door for the paramedics to take Andrew out.

Reid shook his head. "Please? I won't bother anyone," he tried, his eyes following his doctor out the door. He needed to be with him. They couldn't take him away. What if he lost him? What if he never saw him again?

"Spence, it doesn't work that way. You'll go in a different car," she said, biting her lip. But he had stopped paying attention once he realized the answer was a resound no. He watched Hotch leave the room after Andrew, speaking to another paramedic in the hall about Rossi and his condition.

But dammit! Reid didn't care about Rossi and how he was! He cared about Andrew and his welfare!

Rossi wasn't even real!

Morgan entered the room after having stepped out to make a phone call and looked to JJ, purposefully avoiding Reid. Not that he cared- how interesting he was to a spectre was of none of his concern.

"What are they going to do?" JJ asked and Morgan's jaw clenched.

"They're giving the three ambulances to Rossi, Varney and Wright, since they're the most high risk. They're sending three more for me, Emily and Reid. They should get here in fifteen minutes," he said finally turning to look to Reid. His expression softened, melting away when he saw his friend. But Reid merely blinked and turned away, trying to inform him without speaking that he was not in the mood to deal with him and his unkind words.

"Reid, what-"

"Morgan," JJ warned quietly, shaking her head. "He...he isn't...he..." She sighed and looked down at her hands, trying to find the proper words. "Wright got him," was all she said, avoiding his eyes.

He shook his head slowly, looking between her and Reid. "No," he said, huffing out a strained chuckle that died on her lips when she remained serious. She was telling the truth? "No. No. He isn't...he wouldn't...he's too strong," he said accusingly to her. When she didn't respond, he turned to Reid, taking long strides to meet him, brown eyes desperately searching hazel.

He had to be in here somewhere...

"Reid? Come on, man. It's me...Morgan? Derek Morgan?" he said, when Reid regarded him with an offhanded look. He shook his head again. "Kid, it's...it's me. Come on, you gotta know me."

He placed his hand down on Reid's, which was resting on his knee, and Reid pulled his hand back as if it had been burned.

"Go away," he murmured, turning away once more.

"Reid, you-" Morgan began, the hurt evident in his voice.

"Let it go, Morgan," JJ said softly.

He stood, turning to look at her. "Let it go?" he repeated, flopping his arms to the sides. "Let it go? JJ, don't you get it? We were too late. We failed him. I can't...I let him..." His voice was grating on Reid's nerve, and he had resorted to plugging his ears, trying to drown out the noise. Morgan's mouth continued to move, but it seemed like he wasn't saying anything, his fingers working successfully on bringing him peace. Now he could focus on more important things.

They had said he could go with them to see Andrew, but not in the ambulance. Shouldn't they be back to get him now? Ambulances shouldn't wait so long.

Unless...

Unless they weren't going to take him at all and they had lied.

How dare they? He jumped to his feet, wincing at the pain that followed this action, but running out of the room regardless, JJ and Morgan calling after him. But he was oblivious to their words; he needed to get to Andrew. They took him away. He needed to get to them before they left for good.

He lumbered up the stairs, more so carrying himself with the railing than actually walking. He darted past startled police officers and out to the front yard, sighing in relief when he saw that Andrew was still there, his stretcher being raised into the ambulance.

No longer running, he walked at a quick pace to the ambulance, halfway across the yard when Morgan yelled, "Hotch! Get him!"

"No!" Reid roared as Hotch wrapped his arms around his waist, lifting him up easily despite his attempts to be put down. He clawed at his arms with the seven nails he had as he kicked madly, flailing his legs out and hoping they'd connect with Hotch's shin hard enough that he'd let him go. But he didn't. He just held on tightly, digging his heels into the dirt to steady himself against Reid's struggles.

"Let me go!" he shouted, his struggles becoming desperate as the ambulance door closed and the vehicle took off, Andrew safely inside it.

He was gone.

His doctor was being taken away.

The only chance for sanity he had was being taken away.

And it was all their fault- the people who resembled his hallucinated team. _They_ took Andrew away from him. _They _held him in place so he couldn't get to Andrew. _They_ stopped him from getting better.

He yelled out in anger, throwing his head back with all other violent notions as he struggled even harder, now fueled by rage and fear. But just as before, Hotch didn't even seem bothered by his movements and acted as though he were merely a petulant toddler who wanted freedom from an overbearing parent's hold. He became even angrier when Hotch turned him around, holding him at arm's length as he tried to speak to him.

"Reid, you have-"

"I hate you!" Reid roared, stopping the man in the middle of his speech, his mouth slung open. "I hate you! He was going to help me! He was going to help me and you ruined it! You hurt him and you took him away!"

"Reid," Hotch said, but was interrupted once more.

"YOU'RE NOT REAL!" he screamed, letting his body fall to the ground, curling into himself again. "You're not real, you're not real, you're not real..."

Hotch watched him, letting himself be pushed aside as two paramedics rushed over, grabbing him from his underarms and picking him up, sitting him down more properly. A third paramedic joined the group, taking a frighteningly long needle and jamming it into Reid's shoulder.

His eyes widened, only for a moment, before the heavy lids fluttered down and his rant became broken apart and less coherent.

"You're...not...you're not...re...re...real," he was slurring, his lips barely moving but making exaggerated movements before his body went limp and he fell into the waiting arms behind him. One of the men shifted Reid's weight, carrying him in his arms as the other two stood.

"Let's lie him down on the porch for now," one, a stout paramedic, said and the one holding Reid nodded, carrying him away to the small, wooden slab by the front door. As they turned, the third one looked over to Hotch, and tried to smile at him.

"We had to. We were afraid the stress would make him worse," he explained.

"Is that possible?" Hotch asked.

"Ugh...the stress thing?" the paramedic asked.

He shook his head. "No, for it to get worse."

The man licked his lips. "Agent, I'm not really a psychiatrist or anything, but I'm sure he could work through it. I mean, I don't know the details but I think the trauma can be dealt with. He'll be in good hands," he said.

"Whose hands?"

The medic hesitated. "I'm not going to lie, Agent. It's a bad situation. He'll need hospitalization-"

"I know," Hotch interrupted. "What I want to know is the...the level of care?"

"You mean the permanence of his stay?" he asked, raising a brow. Hotch nodded eagerly. "I don't know for sure. He'll need to have an Psych Eval. for that to be deciphered. It's a mandatory stay of three days but my personal opinion is that he'll probably be transferred to a Residential service." He looked back to the porch were Reid now lay, a blanket placed beneath him as the other medics took vitals, pressing their fingers into his neck and examining the wounds that weren't covered in plaster or gauze. He turned to Hotch once more and asked, "Any other questions I can answer for you, sir?"

Hotch looked over the medic's shoulder to where Morgan and JJ stood. "How's Emily?" he asked.

"Agent Prentiss? Minor Concussion, more shock than anything. She's in the kitchen now with another medic, getting ice while the other ambulances arrive."

Hotch nodded as he began walking to his two agents. "Thanks. I'm going to send Agent Morgan over to you. Make sure his arm gets looked at. He's too stubborn to ask for help," he said.

"Sure thing, Agent," he said to Hotch's retreating back.

"Morgan," Hotch said as he joined the group. "Go over to that paramedic over there. Get your arm looked at."

Morgan shook his head. "I can wait. It's not too bad. I need-"

"Morgan, that's an order. You lost a lot of blood from fighting Varney. I want you to get taken care of. The next set of ambulances won't be here for another ten minutes," he said and Morgan sighed, knowing it was a losing battle.

"Fine. We'll talk later," he said, clapping a hand on JJ's shoulder as he headed over to the medic who was patiently awaiting him. The two walked into the house, while taking a great pause on the porch as Morgan looked at Reid's unconscious form. When the door opened and closed, Morgan being taken care of inside, Hotch turned to JJ.

"How is everyone?" she asked.

"Fine as they can be. Emily just has a concussion and Rossi's wound wasn't fatal. The vest did a decent job of slowing the bullet down so it wasn't able to do too much damage," he said.

"And...And Spencer?"

Hotch looked to the squad car behind her, as two officers worked on a report. "We'll see," he finally said. He then added, "We should get in touch with Garcia. Let her know how everything worked out. She'd be happy to hear that we found him."

"I can call her now," JJ said as she reached for her cellphone, but Hotch stopped her.

"There's something I want to talk to you about," he said.

She looked at him, biting her lip. "Um, yeah sure. What...what is it?"

"What happened in the bathroom? After I left? How did he act? What were you able to figure out?" He asked. She licked her lips and looked down, folding her arms over her chest as she thought back to the moment.

"I...It was...weird. I started to cry and he comforted me. For a second there, I thought that he was normal. Well...you know...Reid Normal. But when he heard Andrew speak he told me I wasn't real and tried to leave. I tried to get him to stay, but he pushed me," she explained, her eyes flitting over to the porch before returning to the ground. "I think...I think Andrew convinced him he was hallucinating and delusional. He must've made him think that we- the team- were all just a delusion."

Hotch nodded. "That's why he reacted the way he did when we took Wright away. And when Wright entered the room. He thought Wright was the only hope he had at getting better. Becoming...sane," he reasoned. Clearing his throat, he added, "I'm going to go speak to Emily. Call Garcia. Tell her to get on the jet. I know she'll want to come here when she hears everything."

He turned and left, leaving JJ to call Garcia as he headed for Emily. What had happened in that room that resulted in two agents being knocked unconscious and shot, while the UnSubs got away?

xXx

To say Garcia was nervous was an understatement. It had been an hour since she sent the team the address and still no word. And they had just left her to sit in her little, protected room without even a job to do or something to search for. Several times she had pulled out her current knitting project with the hopes of distracting herself, only to fail all times.

How could she just sit here, twiddling her thumbs, while the team could be finding Reid or being led into another trick? It was setting her on edge! But when her phone went off, she was too afraid to answer it. What if it was bad news? What if they found Reid, but something was horribly wrong? What if they didn't find him? What if someone got hurt? Or worse?

It was on the third ring that she took a deep breath and answered it, doing her best to keep her voice from sounding the way she felt.

"What did you guys find?" she asked, worrying her lip.

"We found him. Spencer," JJ said.

She exhaled deeply in relief, rubbing at her eyes as she felt the sting of tears. They found him. They found Reid, and were getting him away from that hell. "How...how is he?" she asked, choking slightly over her cries as she smiled wide, her purple lips pulled up. But when JJ didn't respond, her smile wavered. Why wasn't she saying anything? What was wrong with him? What didn't she want to say?

"Hotch has arranged for a jet to pick you up. We're going to the hospital," she said softly.

"JJ, you're scaring me. What happened?" Garcia asked, standing up from her chair as she looked around her room. She had a prepared suitcase somewhere in this mess...

"Rossi and Morgan were shot, and Emily has a concussion," she said.

What about Reid?

"And...Reid?" Garcia asked, prompting her to continue.

JJ paused before saying, "It's bad. He...He's hurt. But...just...I'm sorry, Garcia. I don't feel comfortable saying all this on the phone. It just seems so impersonal."

Garcia nodded, her blonde curls flopping against her head. "Yes. Yes I...I understand. I'll um...be ready soon."

"Okay. See you then," JJ said and then the phone clicked as she hung up.

Garcia swallowed nervously as she continued to look for her suitcase, finally finding it underneath a desk of modems. She pulled it out, staring at the hot pink case as her mind worked a million thoughts a second. What had happened to him? What didn't she feel right saying on the phone? Were Morgan and Rossi shot badly? What about the UnSubs? What about Reid?

She grabbed her case and stood up, turning off everything she had to and locking her door. She walked down the corridors to the jet, knowing that this would be the longest, most nerve-wracking plane ride of her life.

xXx

**Author's Note:**** Long chapter for you guys. One of the longest ones, actually. Only a couple more chapters to go. Thank you all for such kind reviews and whatnot! And all the favorites and alerts. Here are some specific replies now:**

**Pigfarts on MARS-**** I don't know if you've seen my avatar, but if you have, then you should know that I am in love with this pen name of yours. It's totally awesome. **

**AhmoseInarus-**** Shush! We can pretend it's a word! Haha and why thank you! That truly means a lot.**

**Reidemption-**** I love Morgan. I especially love his relationship with Reid in the series. I'm excited to write his character for the upcoming chapters and hope I don't disappoint you with how he's portrayed from now until they epilogue.**

**Orangezest100-**** I feel so honored! Hopefully, I don't disappoint.**

**Chapter Twenty: As It Should Be (Preview)**

Hotch held his hand, subconsciously massaging the knuckles as he stared at his face, calm and serene in a forced sleep. He looked so damaged, so defeated. Nothing like the Reid he knew, the Reid he came to love as a close friend. He always liked to consider Reid like a younger brother of sorts- guiding him and teasing him all at the same time.

And now his brother was gone.

He was tortured, beaten, abused and now he was destroyed. He would be forced into some cold and unfeeling institution and when- if- he ever regained his sanity, would then have to deal with the trauma. But it could never be truly lived with. He would spend the rest of his life with nightmares, running away from boogeyman that, no matter how far away they physically were, would always lurk in his closet.

Bowing his head, hiding the thin streaks of tears that slid down his cheeks, he rubbed his thumb over his hands as he said in a voice so soft that the medic beside him was unaware he even spoke, "I am so sorry, Spencer."


	20. Chapter 20

**Disclaimer:** **Criminal Minds and all its associated characters are property to CBS and no profit is being made from this story.**

**Chapter Twenty: As It Should Be**

'_Sanity may be madness but the maddest of all is to see it as it is and not as it should be.' –Don Quixote_

"Careful with him," Morgan warned a medic who was fastening the still unconscious Reid to a stretcher, his voice filled with worry and the hints of a threat.

The medic, seemingly oblivious to the menacing meaning in his words, simply smiled and said, "Don't worry, Agent. We'll make sure he receives the best of care possible."

"Make sure that you do," he said as he turned to speak one last time with the others before he was forced into an ambulance. Really, his shoulder wasn't so bad he needed his own ride to the hospital. But protocol was protocol, and he was being pushed by both the medical staff and Hotch to get all the care he needed.

Emily stood with the group as well, leaning slightly on JJ as the world still blurred around her. Her face was drained of all color and she shook visibly, her eyes looking around lazily and tiredly. A layer of gauze was wrapped around her head and she held an ice pack up to the back of her skull, most likely trying to dull the pain of her concussion.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, looking concernedly at her. She seemed about ready to topple over.

But ever the strong-willed agent he knew, she smiled shakily and said, "Fine. Just happy it's over. At least...kind of. Hotch was telling me about his...condition." Her smile dropped the instant she spoke of Reid, upset that she hadn't been there to at least see him. She refused to let her eyes wander over to where the medics were strapping him in and getting him ready for the ride to the hospital- seeing him lie down lifelessly and inevitably injured would be too much. Once he was awake, she could compromise on the wounds. But until then, he looked too broken at the moment. Too broken for her to want to ever see.

"There is a silver lining to something," Hotch said after a moment, looking contemplatively off to the side.

Morgan put his hands on his hips and raised an eyebrow. "And what is that? I fail to see the positive in what's happened here." he said.

Hotch regarded him for a second, before ignoring the almost rude quality to his voice and saying, "Reid attacked Andrew. He kicked his leg in."

"Well, he was being held at gunpoint, Hotch. Even a fly knows when it's in danger," Morgan said.

"Yes, but look at it this way: Reid was convinced that we're a delusion and that Andrew was his savior. The fact that he could attack his savior while steadfastly holding onto that belief is impossible for me to understand. I think that, for a moment, his flight-or-fight response kicked in and pulled our Reid back out. If only for a second," he said. He paused for a long while before adding, "If he came out once, he can come out again."

"Like Conversion Disorder," JJ said slowly, a small smile growing on her face. "They have a trauma-induced disability that can be waived in matters of life and death."

Hotch, for a quick nanosecond, flashed a small smile and said, "Exactly. Except, for Reid, he was suffering a trauma-induced insanity which he waived in a matter of life and death."

Morgan couldn't resist the broad smile that he pulled, his glittering white teeth bared as he managed a small chuckle. "My boy Reid is still in there!" he said cheerfully, clapping his hands together. His heart was swooning with happiness. He was still there! Somewhere, maybe not in the surface, but somewhere. He could still be Reid. He would come back to them, stronger than ever. He just knew it!

"Agents, the ambulances are ready to leave. Agent Morgan, Agent Prentiss, you should get situated in your stretchers now," a medic said as he approached the team, then, turning to JJ and Hotch, added, "Will either of you be riding with anyone or driving yourself to the hospital?"

Hotch turned to JJ, sharing a look before saying, "I'm sure we can have some officers drive the cars back to the station." He then looked to the medic and asked, "Will it be alright if I ride with Reid?"

The medic opened his mouth but closed it as he looked over his shoulder to where Reid was being hefted into the ambulance. "He'll be unconscious for several hours because of the sedative. But yes, you can. Will you be riding with anyone, Miss?" he asked JJ.

She looked between Morgan and Emily, as though debating who to ride with. After a moment, she said, "No, actually. I think the car ride will be a good time to just think."

"Alright, then. We'll be leaving now though. So Agent Hotchner, if you could head over to the ambulance right there," he pointed to where Reid had been only a moment ago, now safely tucked away in the vehicle, "I will get Agent Morgan and Agent Prentiss in their ambulances as well."

Hotch nodded his thanks and said his partings to his team as he headed over to where Reid was and where the paramedics were getting the last of everything ready. It felt like he was floating- like his feet were taking him where he needed to go without his knowledge, his brain out of the loop. His mind was swimming, blood rushing to his head. The reality of the situation was finally crashing into him, causing a surge of a thousand emotions, all entirely different from the other.

After a week of painstaking searches and profiling, they found Reid.

After a week of severe torture, he had slipped into a psychotic episode.

After a week of working harder than they've ever had, they brought Reid to safety.

After a week of submission to a sociopath and a insane killer, Reid was no longer Reid.

After years of partnership and friendship, they failed Reid.

They let Wright take him. They let Varney lead them astray. They let him go through a week of torture. They let him live in a personal Hell.

Even if Reid ever came to forgive them, Hotch wasn't sure he could forgive himself.

And when he sat down on the small bench beside the stretcher, the medic beside him as the engine roared into life and began it's trip to the hospital, he saw this new Reid for the first real time. Broken limbs. Scarred appendages. Burned skin. He saw him for everything he was in that very moment: Abused, misused, and probably frightened beyond fathomable possibilities. His entire life was being questioned in his mind! Who he was, who he had been, what he had done to get where he was- all of it was being pulled out from underneath him. He couldn't decipher which was real and which was being spoon-fed to him.

And that was when it all made sense to him.

He never understood Reid's fear of insanity, of inheriting his mother's illness. He always thought it was one of those unreasonable frights based off of him putting too much stock in statistics, as he often did. But staring at him, evaluating the situation for what it was, he not only empathized with this fear, but he felt it.

To not know what was a ghost and what was real, to not know what was a imagined voice and what was an actual voice, to not know who or what you truly are...

It was terrifying.

And now Reid was forced to literally face his fear.

He just hoped that Reid would come out of this a better person for it. But really, he couldn't ask anymore than for Reid to come out of it at all.

He reached out and grabbed of his hands, examining it slowly, painfully. His chest tightened at the boniness of it, at the yellowness of the skin that pulled over the incredibly ocular bones and veins. His stomach jumped at the three fingers, void of fingernails. Being in the career field he was in and being the furthest away from naivety that anyone could possibly be, his mind created the scenes before him, unbidden. Against his own volition, he saw Reid have his nails being ripped out one by one, scared and in pain. Wondering where his team was when he needed them most...

He squeezed his eyes, trying to block out the images. And after several minutes and with many years of perfected compartmentalization, he succeeded. He was able to look at Reid and not see his face contorted in pain, his eyes hollow with fright.

Hotch held his hand, subconsciously massaging the knuckles as he stared at his face, calm and serene in a forced sleep. He looked so damaged, so defeated. Nothing like the Reid he knew, the Reid he came to love as a close friend. He always liked to consider Reid like a younger brother of sorts- guiding him and teasing him all at the same time.

And now his brother was gone.

He was tortured, beaten, abused and now he was destroyed. He would be forced into some cold and unfeeling institution and when- if- he ever regained his sanity, would then have to deal with the trauma. But it could never be truly lived with. He would spend the rest of his life with nightmares, running away from boogeyman that, no matter how far away they physically were, would always lurk in his closet.

Bowing his head, hiding the thin streaks of tears that slid down his cheeks, he rubbed his thumb over his hands as he said in a voice so soft that the medic beside him was unaware he even spoke, "I am so sorry, Spencer."

xXx

"Spencer!"

Reid jumped at the noise, his eyes snapping open and his heart thumping wildly against his chest. He was looking up to a white ceiling, lying on his back on a thin yet soft mattress. Beeping machines surrounded him and various wires poked under his skin or attached to him with gel. What had happened? Where was he?

He was so perplexed by the sudden change in environment, that he had forgotten about someone calling his name. Until, the loud booming voice filled the room again and he sat up, straining the wires that tried to pull him close. He swallowed when he saw the angry figure off his father in his room, standing by the light switch, his finger raised to the little knob as he prepared to flip it down, a wide, disturbing grin on his face.

"No," Reid begged, watching as his finger wavered over it. He needed the light. He hated the dark. "No. Please don't," he said again, his eyes flitting over to look at Will, wide and pleading.

"You always were so weak. Never good at sports, never good at making friends. Only good at reading a book and remembering all the shit it said. So weak and pathetic. Do you even have any real thoughts of your own, or all they are just some paraphrased lines from books?" he taunted, sneering.

"Please...go away," he asked again.

"I wonder...what would happen if I turned these lights off? Would you scream? Would you cry? If I recall correctly, you were afraid of the dark. Very afraid of the dark," he said, his finger pushing the knob down slightly, with just enough control to keep the lights from shutting off. Reid felt himself shake, fear and uncertainty rushing in his veins.

Why was his dad here?

Where was _here_?

_'Please don't turn off the lights...'_

"I just wanted a son. Not a wimp, not someone to be disappointed in. But a son. Was that so much to ask?" Will said, his voice filled with regret and hurt. He then turned to his son, smiling wickedly as he added, "You think you're so tough. Working for the FBI. But once the lights go out, we all know that you're a worthless, sniveling little girl."

And with that, he flipped the switch.

The room darkened.

Reid screamed.

xXx

"How's your arm?" Emily asked as Morgan walked into the hallway, his shoulder bandaged and forcing him to reach out with his other arm to grab the cup of coffee JJ offered him.

"It's fine. They wanted me to stay the night but I refused. I wanted to be here with Reid. How's your head?" he asked, sparing a glance to the door that stood slightly open. The door that led to the room where his friend and colleague was held, wearing away a week of pain. A nurse had stepped in to perform vitals and take notes and he turned back to his teammates as Emily answered.

"It's alright. Nothing I'm not used to, with this job and all. Rossi's doing fine, too. But, I only say that because apparently he yelled at two nurses when they told him he couldn't leave to visit Reid. Hotch is speaking to him now, then said something about making a phone call," she explained and he couldn't help but smirk. Rossi _would_ bring hell to the nursing staff if they tried to keep him away from one of his team.

"Has the doctor said anything about him?" he asked, looking to the door as he said the words, hearing mumbled voices come from within the room. Was he awake? The sedative only lasted six hours. It had to have worn off by now.

"No. He was busy with other things. Plus, we wanted everyone to be here when he told us,"JJ said, following his gaze to the room. She heard it too. Speaking.

"He...he's awake?" Emily asked, swallowing as she set her coffee down on the small table beside their chairs. She stood, along with JJ, as they stared at the door, wanting for the nurse to come out and say that they could visit him. But instead, a strangled scream filled the air as the light from the room blinked off.

"Reid!" Morgan yelled, sprinting to the room in three long strides. When he and the others entered, they saw the nurse, dark drown hair pulled back and wide green eyes filled with sudden fear as she waved her hands in front of Reid, trying to calm him down.

He was screaming, twisting his head and limbs around violently before lurching off the bed. Startled, the nurse place her palms on his chest and tried to push him. By the touch made him scream even louder, pulling back as if it burned him. His hands clawed at where she had touched him, kicking his legs in the air and causing her to stand back from the bed.

"What happened?" Emily said accusingly.

The nurse opened her mouth to respond, but Morgan cut her off, angrily flipping the lights on as he bellowed out, "The lights need to be on! Did you even read his file before you came in here?"

The nurse looked about ready to cry, flustered and confused as she looked to the still screaming Reid and back to his furious protector, her knees growing weak. "I...I didn't think...I-"

"Clearly!" Morgan snarled, causing Emily to snap at him.

"Morgan! It was an accident!" she hissed.

He looked at her, his mouth slacked open, the sudden realization of how absurd his actions were overcoming him. Did he really just flip out on a young nurse for turning the lights off? For all he knew, that wasn't even what set Reid off! It could've been anything- the man had gone to Hell and back, he had a lot to scream about.

Turning to the shaking nurse, he looked guiltily into her eyes and said softly, "I...I'm sorry. I was just...He..."

She forced a tight-lipped smile on her face. "Don't worry about it. You're right. I should've been more careful. Sorry," she said tersely as she practically ran from the room, nearly forgetting her clipboard of notes in her attempt to flee the scene as quickly as possible. Morgan looked after her, feeling the urge to follow her and make sure she understood the sincerity of his apology. But Reid's strangled cries stopped him.

He turned to the bed, watched as JJ sat herself down beside him and wiped tears from her eyes. He could tell she wanted to grab his hand, to stroke his cheek. But she stopped herself, clearly thinking back to what had happened when the nurse tried to push him down. He hand twitched in her lap though, as if it took all her effort to not reach for him.

"Spence," she said softly through her tears. "Please. Please, come back."

Reid continued to writhe on the bed, the wires becoming twisted around him as his screams faded to grunts and every-so-often shouts. He was moaning, his face contorted in fear as he began speaking to an entity that wasn't there, his voice trembling.

"Stop...leave me alone...please...the lights...the lights are...its dark," he whined, frowning deeply as his eyes squeezed shut.

"Reid, open you eyes," Morgan said as he moved closer, kneeling down beside the bed. "The lights are on. Open your eyes."

Slowly, the wrinkles on his lids from straining his eyes close lessened and he opened them, blinking at the brightness and turning his tear streaked face to his three visitors.

"Oh, Reid," Emily said, gasping. This was her first time seeing him and it literally stopped her breath right in her throat. Where had Reid gone? Not only was his body so worn down and broken, making him look like a fragile and shattered version of himself, but his eyes. He wasn't in there. She searched and searched his dull hazel eyes, but she couldn't find him. He was too far down to even shine through in his own eyes.

"Andrew," he croaked out, his voice hoarse from his fit. "I need Andrew."

"Have some water, Spence," JJ said as she stood, turning to the small pitcher and plastic cups set beside his bed. She poured him a glass and offered it to him, but he just looked at it, turning his hard gaze back to her.

"Where is he? You said I could visit him," he said.

She bit her lip and looked to Morgan, who immediately jumped in.

"You need to get some rest first. And drink water," he urged, nodding towards the cup that JJ still held in her hand. His voice sounded horrible. He couldn't imagine his throat felt too good either. But Reid simply ignored the statement.

"Please...you don't understand," he said, his lip quivering. He looked so sad, so hopeless. Like a lost puppy constantly looking for its master. "I need him. He's going to help me."

"I know, Reid. But right now, he needs to rest and get better, and so do you," he said, curling his hands into fists. What he wouldn't give to have five minutes alone with Andrew and a get-out-of-jail free card! His neck would be twisting beneath his fingers instead of air if he had those two things...

"I feel fine," Reid lied. Clearly, he did not feel fine. The shaking, the scratchy quality to his voice, the numerous wounds...he was the exact opposite from fine. And that was excluding all the psychological damage he wasn't even aware he had.

"Spence, please-" JJ said, but a doctor rushed in, clipboard in hand as he walked over to his patient, eyeing the team suspiciously as though they were the ones responsible for his outburst.

"Can you take me to see Andrew?" Reid asked, turning the man with wide, hopeful eyes. Maybe he would help him. Clearly this imagined people would do nothing of the sort.

The doctor, rather young looking with thick, black hair and a strong, well sculpted face, softened his expression when he turned to him. He smiled as he said, "I'm afraid Andrew isn't feeling well enough for visitors right now. He asked me to take care of you for him though, told me all about your case."

Reid's eyes widened and he sat up in bed, his elbows propping him up as he asked, "Really? Can you help me?"

The doctor nodded. "Most certainly. I wouldn't let Andrew down by not helping his patient."

Reid smiled- a large, glowing smile that seemed wrong somehow on his face. So sunken and hollow, so filled with pain...he shouldn't be smiling. Why was he smiling?

"Can you perform the therapy treatment, then?" he asked.

The doctor furrowed his brow as the others leaned in closer. Therapy?

When he didn't receive an answer, he clarified, "The electroshock therapy? Andrew was going to do it for me before...before he got hurt." He sent a sideways glance to Morgan, his eyes narrowed in hate and the man nearly stumbled backwards at the sheer venom his tone contained. Did he blame him? Sure, he was the one who shot Wright, but did he hate him for that? Would he always hate him? He swallowed, hoping that wasn't true. Hoping everything would just go back to the way it used to be. Hoping Reid would just be Reid.

He didn't think he could ever stand to see so much anger and loathing turned to him by those eyes.

But his thoughts were turned away from the strong look of utter detest when the words finally registered. Electroshock Therapy? Good God, was that really what Andrew had been planning? Had they really gotten there right before he was about to zap Reid's brain?

The impulse to find this man's room grew stronger. He would kill him. He would kill him if he ever saw him again, he was sure of it.

But while he was steaming in rage and Emily and JJ were gasping in shock, the doctor simply took a second to hide his initial response- wide eyes and open mouth- and smiled sadly. "Unfortunately, we don't have the technology to perform such therapy. But we do have many alternatives that are just as effective. Some even more so," he said.

Despite the look of disappointment that shadowed Reid's face, he sighed and nodded. "Okay. I guess that'll be fine then."

"Good, good!" the doctor said, reaching over the young agent and to the table where the pitcher and cups sat and poured him a cup of water. He handed it to him and tentatively, Reid grabbed it, slowly bringing it to his lips and then downing it. It felt so good on his sore and raw throat, he reached for the pitcher himself and poured a second cup. The doctor stood now, smiling as he said, "If you would like, you can tell me what you want Andrew to know and I can tell him for you. He can't have visitors, but since I'm a doctor I can stop by and let him know what you said."

Reid thought for a moment, finishing a third cup of water as he said, "Could you tell him that when he gets better I want him to be my doctor again? Please?"

The doctor nodded. "Sure. Now, lay down and get some rest. We'll continue with Andrew's treatment plan for you in the morning."

"Okay," Reid said, smiling that out-of-place smile once more.

The doctor made a motion for the team to follow him and one by one they left, entering the hall. The doctor turned to them, his face serious once more. "I'm Spencer's doctor, Dr. Ostheim. I was going to wait to explain the situation until your other agent was discharged, but I don't think we have time anymore," he said with a sigh. He bit his lip and then looked at his watch. "Get your boss and then head up to Agent Rossi's room- 307. I'll join you as soon as possible and let you all know what's going on with Spencer and what we plan on doing for him."

"Is...is he going to be alright?" Emily asked, still disturbed by what she saw. It was all too much at once.

Dr. Ostheim chewed on the inside of his cheek for a second. "It depends. I'll explain all of it in about an hour," he said, turning away from the group, leaving them all to wonder what would happen to their friend.

xXx

Hotch swallowed nervously as he picked at the hem of his jacket, listening to the ringing of the phone in his ear. His heart was beating fast- he couldn't believe he had to do what he was doing. This was the one thing he always wished he'd never have to do for any of his teammates. But here he was, doing it, his heart thumping and his leg tapping with anxiety.

How long had he been on hold for?

He looked at his watch.

Only two minutes? Hmm, strange. Felt longer.

The ringing finally stopped and a voice answered. A confused woman said, "Hello?"

Hotch took a deep breath. "Diana Reid?"

"Yes...who's this?" Reid's mother asked.

"This is Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Hotchner. I'm your son's Unit Chief," he began, wiping a thin layer of perspiration from his forehead with a tissue. "I'm calling in regards to your son, Spencer."

"This has something to do with him not talking to me for the past couple days, doesn't it?" she said and he could here the anticipatory dread in her tone. She was terrified of the news he would give her and he wanted nothing more than to lie to her. But he couldn't. He had to tell her the truth.

"I'm afraid so. A week ago, Spencer was...he was kidnapped by our UnSub. We rescued him, and he's in the-"

"A week ago?" she said, her voice dangerously low. "A week ago this happened and you are just now thinking to inform me of this?"

"With all due respect-"

"With all due respect, my ass! If you had any sort of respect for me you would've called me the instant this happened!" she yelled into the phone, her voice tearful and he could tell that she was crying hysterically, as any mother would.

"I'm sorry. You're right, I should have. But we were distracted by the case. We put all our time and effort into finding him," he said, but she cut him off, her voice immediately losing the angry tone and being replaced by a frightened, fretful one.

"How is he? Is he alright?"

He swallowed what felt like a rock stuck in his throat. "He...he was hurt badly by this man. We have yet to receive a full report from his doctor, but the moment we do I will make sure to call you right away," he dutifully said. But she snorted at him through a large sob.

"How did this even happen?"

He wanted to leave. He wanted to hang up the phone and walk away from this. Throw this duty in the trash and forget the responsibility. He wanted to lie again. Wanted to tell her that there was no way this could have been prevented. That Reid would've been captured either way and would be living the same fate regardless. But he knew he couldn't. He knew he had to tell her the truth. He had to stay on the phone. Accept the consequences.

"While investigating a series of murders, Spencer went somewhere to study evidence. At the time, we didn't know it was a set up and he was abducted by the man who committed the murders. I'm so-"

"DON'T!" she shouted, and he had to pull the phone away from his ear. "Don't you dare apologize to me! You don't have the right to! You just let him go out there and get kidnapped? You're his boss! You're supposed to protect him and make sure this doesn't happen! How does a _profiler_ not realize when they're being set up?" Her voice was filled with disgust and he internally cringed at her words, knowing that they were justified.

"You...you..." she stopped, her cries becoming too great as she wept into the phone, sniffling as she tried to stifle the noises she made. And he just sat there. Uselessly. The phone attached to his ear, a tissue clenched in his fist, beads of sweat rolling down his face. He just sat there for five or ten minutes, hearing this woman he didn't even know cry her heart out. Listening to her mourn over what he should have prevented.

Finally, she calmed down enough, only taking in sharp intakes of breath that seemed to wrack her whole body with the intensity. In a high, whiny voice she said, "He was my baby. You let him hurt my baby."

His lips went dry.

His mouth went dry.

He felt too hot.

He felt too cold.

He felt the need to move.

He felt the need to sit still.

He felt the need to breathe.

He felt the need to stop breathing entirely.

His body was at war with itself as his mind ran a blank. What was he supposed to say to her? What comforting words could he use? Could he even comfort her? She had the right, most certainly, to be inconsolable. But did that mean that he shouldn't even try? Should he tell her Reid's outlook was good, when even he himself was doubting the man's future? Should he try to apologize, even though she said not to?

In the end, he could only say one thing.

"I know he was."

There was silence. Then, "I hope this keeps you awake at night, you monster!" she sneered. He winced. Her voice was sharp, so stabbing. He felt physically pained when she spoke to him. Spencer clearly did not get any of this mother's assertiveness. "I hope you're unable to sleep at night, knowing that you let my...my _baby_! Get captured by a murderer! And when that report comes in, make sure someone _else_ calls me to let me know!"

The line clicked with the end of their conversation.

xXx

**Author's Note:**** Another long chapter. Same amount of pages as the last one. Thank you all for your reviews once more! Several reviewers had commented about how hard it must be to update so frequently (each chapter is posted once it is completed now, so I've been writing about a chapter a day) But I really gotta tell you guys this: Your reviews make it easy. Knowing that people are enjoying this story so much and are getting so into it is motivation enough to keep pounding those chapters out! I suspect this story will be done within the week, but that is just a guess based off of my outline. A rough four or so chapters left.**

**Here are some specific replies and once again, thank you all for your reviews and favorites/alerts.**

**Essebes:**** Sorry for making you cry! But I suppose, in some perverse way, it's a good thing, no? -laughs awkwardly- I hope you enjoy the rest of the story! **

**CMSP:**** Another long chapter up! I'm glad you liked the chapter- it was personally one of my favorites. And yeah, crazy Reid is kinda hands on isn't he? Keep reading and your answers will soon come (sounds very wise in an out-of-place way).**

**Reidemption:**** Can you tell I like my JJ/Reid fluff? Hehe...Hopefully the more psychological answers will come in the next chapter, provided my plot bunnies stop screwing with the outline. I'm a big psychology buff, but I always fear that I may deviate from the factual side of it all, so I'm having a mini nervous breakdown (Reid: It's called a Major Depressive Episode now) with my portrayal of Crazy Reid because I want it to be realistic. And I imagine that his brain is so burnt out from stress and the cognitive reinforcement of the torture that it'll accept near everything it's told just to establish a semblance of peace. So yeah, the electroshock therapy sounds good to his mind which would rather believe everything Andrew tells him than risk torture. The self preservation mechanism can be a bitch. Anyway, I hope you enjoy the rest of this story!**

**Pigfarts on MARS:**** I almost made Varney's mom live in Winnipeg for the sole capability to say "Winnipeg?" "That's in Canada." But that seemed too obvious, even to my oblivious mind...either way, I'm glad you liked the chapter and continue to feel the same way about the others.**

**Velociraptoritis:**** I would cry. Nuff said.**

**Allyouneedislove-mr:**** Why, it most certainly makes up for the lack of review. A review is a review- why get nitpicky? Especially when it was such a nice review! Thanks! Like I said, knowing people enjoy this keep it going at the rate it's at. And you should scroll up to the reply I wrote to Reidemption. Very much along the same lines, with the psychology reference. I hope my story doesn't disappoint!**

**A big thank you to all other reviewers! It makes my day, and the chapters write themselves. Feeding my plot bunnies? Hells yeah! (I try to discourage myself from writing based on reviews, but, like most writers, it's impossible to not write when so many people are very much looking forward to the updates.)**

**Chapter Twenty-One: Symptoms of Insanity**

"Can I...can I ask you a question?" JJ said, grabbing the extra fabric of Dr. Ostheim's sleeve as she followed him down the hall. He turned to her, his eyes looking at her sympathetically as he nodded.

"I know I may not have the same psychology training as teammates, but one thing I know is that um...one theory to ugh...schizophrenia is that someone is born with the genetic makeup for it and then something...an outside force...can trigger it. That someone can live their whole lives with schizophrenia but never suffering from it if it isn't triggered before they turn thirty." She stopped speaking, fumbling over her words as she tried to articulate her thoughts but found she was unable to. Her throat was closing up and her eyes stung. She couldn't ask the question. She was afraid of the answer.

Thankfully, Dr. Ostheim understood her train of thought.

"Are you asking me if this trauma triggered a dormant gene for schizophrenia in Spencer?" he asked, a brow raised. Hesitantly, she nodded, preparing herself for whatever his response was: good news or bad news.

But dear Lord, did she want it to be good news.


	21. Chapter 21

**Disclaimer:** **Criminal Minds and all its associated characters are property to CBS and no profit is being made from this story.**

**Chapter Twenty-One: Symptoms of Insanity**

_The DSM- IV Criteria for someone to be classified as schizophrenic- Patient must have two or more of the symptoms present, each for at least a month in duration, in order for a diagnosis of schizophrenia to be made:_

_Delusions_

_Hallucinations_

_Disorganized Speech (i.e. frequent derailment, incoherency)_

_Grossly disorganized or catatonic behavior_

_Negative symptoms (i.e. affective flattening, alogia, avolition)_

"Rossi! Are you alright?" Garcia asked as she ran into the room and plopped down in a chair beside his bed, clasping her hands around him and trying to suppress the tears that threatened to spill through her eyes. She had received a call from Morgan, telling her to head straight up to Rossi's room, where they were all awaiting the doctor to hear Reid's suspected prognosis. Her nerves were on edge and having to see even more of her teammates so damaged was most definitely not helping.

She had fussed over Morgan.

She had cooed over Emily.

She hadn't been able to see Reid.

So that left only Rossi on her list...

"I stopped by a store and bought some cookies. Now, I know they're not homemade and are cooked on the racks of cold, unfeeling industrial ovens devoid of love, but I didn't have time to bake any so this will do have to do until then," she said, producing two boxes of chocolate chip cookies. She handed one to Rossi after opening it and fixed him with a motherly look which made him squirm uncomfortably.

She had to have been a decade younger than him at the least.

It was _not_ okay for her to treat him like her son.

But still, the gesture was kind and he thanked her, silently laughing at her Mother Hen attributes. He bit into a cookie, smiling at the sweet taste.

"For a cookie devoid of love, it's pretty delicious," he said with a chuckle.

She smiled at him before looking over to JJ, practically falling off her seat with worry. If they didn't tell her what happened with Reid in the next ten seconds, fur was going to fly and her furry little friends wouldn't be so furry.

"Tell me now. Please, I need to know," she said, biting her lip as she prepared herself for what was going to be said. Preparing herself for the worst, despite her better want.

"We're not sure exactly what Wright and Varney were trying to do, but they've managed to convince Reid that he..." JJ looked at her teammates, trying to find the proper way to explain such a precarious situation. Every way just seemed too...too blunt. But with a sigh, she decided to say it, regardless of how frank it sounded. "They convinced him that he is a paranoid schizophrenic and that we- his team- are a delusion." She looked down at the ground when she finished, unable to see the look in Garcia's eyes at the news.

Her face had fallen immediately, purple lips frowning and green shadowed eyes glittering. Her brows were furrowed, not fully believing what JJ had told her. Reid couldn't be...That couldn't happen to him! He was Reid! He was so innocent and...how? How did that happen?

"Garcia."

She was pulled from her thoughts by the cool voice of her boss, entering the room with a disheveled look to him. Well, as disheveled as Hotch could look. He always seemed to be almost unnaturally impeccable, all the time.

"I ran into Dr. Ostheim on my way up here. He'll be here in a couple minutes," he said, walking straight past everyone and situating himself in the chair in the far corner. He propped his elbow on the arm of the chair and place his chin in his hand, staring down at the ground in rumination, seemingly unaware of the team staring at him.

"Um, Hotch...you okay?" Morgan asked, knitting his brow as he slowly folded his arms over his chest, careful not to irritate the wound on his shoulder.

He shook himself, as though Morgan's words brought him back to reality. "Um...yeah. Yeah, I'm fine," he said, looking around the room. Before the team could call his bluff and question him further, the door opened and Dr. Ostheim entered, his clipboard with him. He smiled briefly at the group, a fleeting overwhelmed look crossing his face as the many eyes turned to him, demanding answers.

"Hello," he said, then rubbed his eyes and sighed. "Where should we start?"

"What happened to him?" Hotch asked quietly, his dark eyes fixing an unsettling look on the doctor. "What did they do do him? Physically?"

Dr. Ostheim bit his lips and raised his brows as he flipped through his stack of paper, settling on one and running the tip of his finger down the page. "Um, let's see. Broken leg, we had to reset it as it had gotten re-broken several times. He had a sprained wrist. A bullet wound in his chest," he looked up here and said, "If nothing else, the fact that Andrew Wright was a trained medical doctor probably saved his life. It didn't hit any major organs or arteries, but it was still a very ugh...efficient shot. Let's see, he had three fingernails forcibly removed. A very deep stab wound in his right thigh- we had to clean and restitch this as it had become mildly infected. He also had some very...messy stab wounds in his left thigh, along with several long slits created by a blade. He had broken ribs, a broken hip bone. And um..." He bit his lip, looking over to Hotch, as if wanting permission before saying the last thing on the list.

"And what?" Morgan prompted.

He sighed. "He had been brutally raped. There is a disturbingly large amount of tearing and scarring in his anal passage, which indicates frequent abuse. Near daily," he said quietly, looking to the floor.

Garcia took a sharp intake of air as she covered her mouth with both hands, stifling her tears. She didn't think it would be this bad! How come no one prepared her for this? Didn't they realize that she wasn't as used to these crimes as they were? Didn't they realize she had a hard enough time knowing this happened to people she didn't know, let alone _her_ Reid?

She wasn't the only one crying, though. JJ's cheeks were red and wet, and Emily's eyes were glistening with tears. Morgan's fists and jaws clenched violently as his eyes flared with anger, and Rossi stared down at the white blanket thrown over him, his dark eyes misted over. Hotch just hid his face from view, glaring holes into the floor.

"What were the results of his Psych. Eval?" he asked suddenly, not looking away from the floor.

Dr. Ostheim flipped through the paper once more as he began to speak, trying to find the specifics. "He not only thinks that he is delusional and hallucinating, but he actually is hallucinating, it seems," he said, frowning.

"What do you mean?" Morgan asked, his voice harsher than he meant for it to be. "Wright had convinced him we were a delusion, we know that-"

"No, Agent Morgan. He's actually hallucinating. It's too early to tell for sure, but I think he's suffering from a psychotic episode. We won't know for certain until we can get Andrew to speak, but I think he was using his torture as a form of cognitive reinforcement- if Reid denied his claims that he was insane, he would hurt him. Eventually, his mind made the connection. Sanity equals pain, pain equals poor health. The brain ultimately strives to protect itself. So, to keep Reid alive, it submitted to what Andrew was telling him. Combined with the stress, he lapsed into a severe major depressive episode with psychotic features," he explained.

"I've only spoken to him twice, not including the time the nurse startled him by turning the light off, and from what I've gathered, he's been suffering from auditory and visual hallucinations. I visited him on my way up here, and asked about the incident with the nurse. It took some time, but eventually I coaxed him into saying that he saw his father in the room, yelling at him. Well, obviously, his father wasn't in the room. He hallucinated him."

"Can you...can you help him?" Garcia asked, wiping away some tears and streaks of eyeliner.

Dr. Ostheim inhaled deeply, placing his clipboard down on the small dresser as he rubbed the bridge of his nose. "It's a very...difficult situation. Generally with delusional and hallucinating patients, it's best to play along with them. They tend to become very defensive when you try to convince them otherwise. Which is why..." he bit his lip, casting his eyes down to the floor. "I'm going to have to ask you all to not visit him."

"What?" the group all said simultaneously, with the exception of Hotch who looked up, his eyes boring into the doctor.

"How can you tell us not to visit him? He's our friend!" Morgan argued, hands flying to his hips.

"He needs us!" Garcia pleaded tearfully.

Dr. Ostheim shrugged his shoulders, frowning deeply. "I'm sorry. But it's my professional opinion-"

"Well, it's my professional opinion that he's hurt and needs his family!" Morgan said.

"He's right."

Everyone turned to face Hotch, their eyebrows raised and their jaws slacked. Did he really just tell them to not visit Reid? To forget about him? Leave him alone in a hospital for God knew how long?

"Hotch...we can't," Emily said, shaking her head and wincing when her head throbbed.

He sighed, sitting back in his seat. "Reid won't be able to work through his hallucinations if they're constantly sitting by his bed giving him cookies," he said and Garcia huffed, insulted as she grabbed the second box of cookies and threw it in her bag, mumbling about how he would receive none. "Having us visit him will only stress him out. The real hallucinations can be dealt with by medication and therapy, but if he saw us everyday, we would hold him back. He won't be able to accept the fact that we're real until he realizes that Wright was playing mind games with him. And he is not in current mental state for that realization to be possible.

"We need to leave him alone for him to get better," Hotch added, internally wincing at the betrayed looks his team was giving him. He didn't like it any more than they did, but he understood the doctor's intentions. He wanted Reid to get better more than he wanted to visit him.

Sensing the tension in the room, Dr. Ostheim cleared his throat and added, "He will stay here for two weeks, at the very least. We will stabilize his physical conditions and try to get a head start on his psychiatric treatment. After the two weeks, or more, depending on how healthy we can get him, he will be transferred to a psychiatric hospital for long-term care. What happens from that point is, unfortunately, not something I can predict. He will be assigned a slew of personal care doctors- ranging from individual counselors, psychiatric doctors, psychologists and so on. They will hold treatment team meetings and, if they decide that he can have visitors, then you can visit him as you please. We'll try our best to find a care center near Quantico, though we can't guarantee that he'll have a bed available for him in the nearest one."

The team nodded, dismal and displeased with the conditions the doctor set for them. "Well, if there aren't any questions for me, I have some paperwork I need to attend to. I will call you if anything comes up."

He turned and left the room, but realized when the door opened once more that someone had followed him.

"Can I...can I ask you a question?" JJ said, grabbing the extra fabric of Dr. Ostheim's sleeve as she followed him down the hall. He turned to her, his eyes looking at her sympathetically as he nodded.

"I know I may not have the same psychology training as teammates, but one thing I know is that um...one theory to ugh...schizophrenia is that someone is born with the genetic makeup for it and then something...an outside force...can trigger it. That someone can live their whole lives with schizophrenia but never suffering from it if it isn't triggered before they turn thirty." She stopped speaking, fumbling over her words as she tried to articulate her thoughts but found she was unable to. Her throat was closing up and her eyes stung. She couldn't ask the question. She was afraid of the answer.

Thankfully, Dr. Ostheim understood her train of thought.

"Are you asking me if this trauma triggered a dormant gene for schizophrenia in Spencer?" he asked, a brow raised. Hesitantly, she nodded, preparing herself for whatever his response was: good news or bad news.

But dear Lord, did she want it to be good news.

"While that is true, I don't think that is the case with Spencer," he said.

She sighed audibly in relief, smiling slightly. "Can you...How can you be sure, though?" she asked, hoping she wasn't jinxing it by continually talking about it.

"Well, generally, there are three stages of schizophrenia. Prodromal, active and residual. The prodromal phase is where it becomes obvious that something is off, though not necessarily enough for people to believe schizophrenia to be the cause. Since Reid didn't have prodromal phase- least, not that I know of- the chances of it being schizophrenia are slim. Plus, he doesn't match all of the criteria, from what I can tell. His delusions are only perceived, so really he is only suffering from hallucinations. His speech and motor functioning are fine, and he doesn't seem to have too many mood disturbances. But really, that's more of a precipitating side effect from the torture. No anhedonia or alogia which is common in schizophrenic patients." He smiled wide at her, placing a strong hand on her shoulder.

"Don't worry. Nothing should be permanently wrong with him. The longest lasting thing we'll see from him will probably be PTSD once we can get him lucid," he said and she nearly cried at his words. He was going to be okay! It would take awhile, but he would be okay! She hadn't even realized that she reached out to hug him until she felt him stiffen beneath her touch. She immediately jumped back, blushing fiercely.

"I...I'm sorry. I was just...happy," she said, ducking her head.

He chuckled. "Don't worry about it. I understand how emotional this stuff can be," he smiled and turned to leave, but stopped, turning back around with a look of mild concern on his face. "Not to pry or anything, but, as a psychologist, I feel the need to tell you that your boss is taking this quite personally."

She furrowed her brows. "Hotch? He's always like that when he's upset. Becomes detached. Well, more detached than usual," she said.

He shook his head. "No, I mean...he's blaming himself for this."

She opened her mouth, only to close it. Why would he blame himself? It wasn't his fault. If it was anyone's fault it was hers...

"I didn't want to say anything at first. I mean, you're all profilers; it would be insulting if I told you what you should already know. But, I think everyone's too upset right now to really focus on each other. And Agent Morgan looked about ready to tear his eyes out," he said, chuckling nervously. "Sometimes, it takes an outside viewer for people to realize stuff when they're going through something."

"Ugh, yeah, no, thanks," she said, too distracted by her own thoughts now. Come to think of it, he did seem more reserved than usual. When Hotch was upset, he made irrational decisions do to his level of distractedness. But he seemed almost...too rational. It seemed like he was relying on logic to get him through this.

Was he so ready to agree with the doctor because he thought it was best for Reid, or because it was best for him? Did he see it as an excuse? A reason to not have to visit the man he was convinced he nearly killed?

No, he wouldn't take the guilt for this. He was far too analytical, far too three dimensional in his thinking. He, of all people, would know that there were a million things that lead to Reid getting to this man. With him not being one of them.

"JJ," Hotch said, startling her. She looked to him as he approached her, acting very much like someone who had somewhere important to be. "Call Reid's mom, let her know everything the doctor said." He continued to walk away, barely even pausing in his steps when he spoke to her.

"Isn't that your job?" she asked, mentally reprimanding herself the second the words left her mouth. That sounded thoroughly rude.

But he just called over his shoulder, slowing down but not stopping, as he answered, "Turns out I'm not good at it."

Before she even had a chance to question him, he disappeared into an elevator. Sighing impatiently, she grabbed her cell phone and searched through her contacts, hitting send when she saw the name 'L. V. Sanitarium'.

xXx

"I am so ready for today's agenda," Morgan said with a vindictive smile, rubbing his hands together as he entered the room. It had been a week since Reid was admitted into the hospital, and a day since Rossi, Varney and Wright were discharged. With everything cleared and out of the way, they were ready to begin their interrogations and complete the profiles for their records.

But they were all out of sorts. Despite being told that they could not visit Reid, they still sat outside his room every night, taking shifts. They never discussed it, nor planned it. It was more of an unspoken agreement between them all. Rossi and Emily would start, giving coffee too JJ and Hotch who took their place, who would then return the favor with Garcia and Morgan. It worked well, and at least made them feel like they were doing something for Reid.

But now that the UnSubs were out, they had to return to their work life, entering the station for the first real time in a week. And Morgan was very much looking forward to the interrogation.

"Morgan, have you noticed anything off about Hotch, lately?" JJ asked, avoiding his eyes as she stirred her spoon absentmindedly through her coffee.

"Not really. I mean, he's been more distant but you now how he gets when he's upset," he said, shrugging his shoulders.

She bit her lip, looking at the door to make sure no one else was coming through before leaning forward and saying in a whisper, "When I called Reid's mom to tell her what the doctor had said, she started talking about how she screamed at the last agent who called, our boss. She kept going on and on that it was his fault Reid got captured. Do you...do you think he took what she said to heart and thinks it's all his fault?"

He chuckled slightly, sitting down in his seat. "JJ, Hotch isn't like that. He's got a good head on his shoulders and he wouldn't think something so unreasonable," he said, clearing his throat slightly. If anyone should feel guilt...

He shook his head. Now wasn't the time for retrospection. No was the time to prepare to interview Varney and Wright. The question was, which one did he want to question? They were being questioned in roughly the same time slots, so he probably wouldn't be able to get a go at both. So who...

"Morgan, I need to speak with you," Hotch said, entering the room and holding the door open for him to leave.

"What about, Hotch?" he asked.

His dark eyes shifted to JJ. "I think it's best we discuss this in private," he finally said, and Morgan felt his heart plummet. What was going on? What did he want to tell him? It wasn't anything regarding Reid- he wouldn't have given JJ that sideways look. So was it about him? What did he do?

"Ugh, okay," he said, slowly rising from his chair and following the man, who lead him to a small, more private board room. This room contained only one, narrow table and four chairs, a small whiteboard hanging from the wall. Hotch gestured for him to take a seat and, reluctantly, he did so.

When he Hotch remained standing, the profiler in him took charge.

_'I'm in trouble,'_ he thought. Hotch was standing while he was sitting. He was trying to give the air of dominance and superiority. He was preparing to yell at Morgan and put him in his place. But what had he done?

"Morgan, I have some...not so good news," he began, and Morgan's stomach dropped. He was in _a lot_ of trouble.

"What is it? Just say it, Hotch," he urged, swallowing as he rubbed his hands together. Even if he was in trouble, he much preferred the bad news to be about him instead of about Reid. He didn't think Reid could survive any more bad news.

Hotch sighed and walked in a line, up and down the front of the room. "Morgan, from what Rossi and Emily told me about the day we went and rescued Reid, you rushed in to get to him when he screamed," he said, looking at him with harsh, yet sad eyes.

"Yeah. And?" he asked, not quite seeing his point. So he had gotten worried about Reid. He didn't understand what was so bad about that. But then his mind pulled out images from that day, the memories sitting in the forefront of his mind. He had heard the scream and...ran...he...pushed Rossi and ran. Was he getting yelled out for pushing Rossi? That hardly seemed worthy of this sort of secrecy.

"Morgan, you pushed Rossi out of the way, resulting in Rossi losing his grip on Varney, and then Emily getting distracted and Wright knocking her out and then shooting Rossi." He stopped pacing, turning to face Morgan fully as he shook his head. "Morgan, you let your emotions get the best of you. And because of that, two agents were taken down, and two UnSubs got away."

What? He couldn't really have been responsible for all that, could he? He hadn't been thinking, just acting. But it wasn't his fault that all of that occurred. He had just been trying to get to Reid...

"I...didn't mean to, Hotch," he said. Did Rossi and Emily blame him? They didn't seem upset. But what if they were? He suddenly felt an extremely strong sense of regret overcome him.

"I know you didn't mean to. But the fact remains that you did," he said, rubbing his temple. He was really distressed about this. Did he blame Morgan? Was he going to tell him he wanted him to step down from the team? That he no longer trusted him? He was about to argue, defend his case, when Hotch started speaking again.

"I had to file a report. Agents were hurt. I had to tell Strauss how it happened. I supported you to the best of my ability, but you...you put our team at jeopardy. There were only so many strings I could pull," he said quietly and Morgan felt everything stop.

Time stopped.

The earth stopped.

The blood in his veins stopped.

Everything.

Just.

Stopped.

He was being fired. Five seconds. Five seconds he had let his guard down, let his impulses run rampant. And he was going to lose his job because of those five seconds.

"No, Hotch. I...I can't...This...this is my family," he said, disliking the desperate way his voice heightened but too upset to care. It never occurred to him how close he was to them, how much he needed them until they were about to be taken away. They couldn't be taken away from him. "You can't...can't fire-"

"Morgan, we're not going to fire you," he said. His shoulders suddenly felt very light. He could breathe again. He was safe. His family was safe.

"You're being suspended."

His head shot up. "What?" he asked, his voice trembling.

"You're being suspended. For a year. I'm sorry, Morgan. It was the best I could get," Hotch said. But Morgan barely heard him. A year? What would he do for a year? He couldn't imagine being away for so long, twiddling his thumbs while his team continued to work, crime after crime, killer after killer. It seemed so wrong. So lazy. So useless.

"Hotch, I...I can't leave this team for that long," he said.

The man looked down at the floor, sighing. "I'm sorry, Morgan. It's been finalized. Your suspension starts today."

Morgan just stared at him, unsure of what to say or do. He...he was losing his job. Temporarily, but still, losing his job. He stared down at his lap, a rush of thoughts running through his mind and yet nothing to say.

"Morgan?" Hotch asked cautiously.

Morgan jumped from his seat, looking around the room and heading to the door. "I'm going to the hospital then to be with Reid. You know where to find me," he said, grabbing the knob and twisting it, pulling it open before turning around and adding, "I...I'm sorry. I just wanted to bring Reid out safe. I...I didn't think. I know it doesn't help, but I'm sorry."

Hotch nodded. "I know," he said softly.

With a sigh, Morgan looked out into the corridor and then turned back to Hotch. "Make sure they pay for what they did. Please," he added, his eyes wide.

"Of course, Morgan."

xXx

**Author's Note:**** The was a severe lack of Reid in this chapter, and this upsets me. But that will change. Oh yes, it will change. Haha. Thanks again for all the wonderful reviews! They really mean so much! Yay! Almost done, I swear.**

**Chapter Twenty-Two: Branches of Evil (Preview)**

"What were you trying to achieve?" Rossi asked, watching as Wright leaned back in his chair, and then leaned forward, his hands fidgeting as he spun the cuffs around his wrists, chewing his lip thoughtfully.

"I was trying to achieve...a cure," he said after a moment, his eyes flitting up to Rossi's dark, shadowed face and then turning back down to the table. "Can't you imagine what it's like? To be insane? To question everything? To think everyone else around you is out to get you? That the devil was really whispering into your ear?" He sat back, folding his arms over his stomach as he regarded Rossi with a scrutinizing look, his eyes narrowed.

"I wanted to help them. I wanted to give them hope. You know, there isn't a cure for schizophrenia. Just it's symptoms," he said, shrugging his broad shoulders, the metal of the cuffs clinking against the table.

"No one knows what causes it. Can't treat it if you don't know what to treat," Rossi said, rolling his shoulder nonchalantly.

"It's the control factor, they don't know. It's trial and error. Make someone insane, treat a specific part of the brain. Fail. Start over. It's just like a science experiment," Wright said, staring up to the ceiling almost dreamily, a faint smile ghosting over his lips.

Rossi folded his arms over his chest and leaned back. "Why though? Why are you so intent on finding a cure?"


	22. Chapter 22

**Disclaimer:****Criminal Minds and all its associated characters are property to CBS and no profit is being made from this story.**

**Chapter Twenty-Two: Branches of Evil**

_'There are a thousand hacking at the branches of evil to one who is striking at the root' -Henry David Thoreau _

Hotch entered the small hall in front of the interrogation room, his team there and already discussing their plan of action. Everyone except Morgan. He didn't want to suspend him- he fought with Strauss on it for as long and as hard as he could. Reid was in danger. It seemed so justified. And if Hotch was being honest with himself, he would admit that he was surprised Morgan was the only one to respond that way. He had been standing right by him when Reid screamed, and even then it didn't seem close enough.

But Strauss had been insistent. He had let his emotions put his team at risk. Two federal agents were harmed because of it. He sighed and rubbed his eyes as he thought back to their initial argument.

"_But everything worked out. No one got seriously injured and we caught the UnSubs," Hotch had said, knowing even before he finished his sentence that it was a poor excuse. He didn't even believe the words himself- so why should Strauss?_

"_Imagine if it didn't, Agent Hotchner. Imagine if Varney shot Rossi in the head and he died. And if Andrew shot Emily and she died. And then the two got away. Agent Morgan would have been responsible for not only the _death_ of two federal agents, but the escape of two violent criminals," she said, her voice stern and clipped. Hotch winced at the scenario, not wanting to think of it playing out like that. Morgan would never do that intentionally._

"_The fact that no one got seriously injured and the UnSubs were caught is truly a miracle to me," she added._

_Hotch bit his lip, shaking his head as he added, "We knew that they wouldn't though. Their profiles-"_

"_You mean to tell me that Morgan did it purposefully then?" she interrupted._

"_No, of course not. But the profiles-"_

_Strauss scoffed. "Agent Hotchner, if it truly was an impulsive action on his part, then the profiles were not considered. And if they were considered, than it was not an impulsive action, in which case he should be placed in a lot more trouble. So which is it?" she asked, and he could just see her face, despite being on the phone. An eyebrow would be raised, and her lips would be pulled into a small condescending smile._

_Hotch sighed, rubbing his forehead. "You have to understand. The profile, we knew Andrew wouldn't leave Spence-"_

"_Which is it, Agent?" she demanded in a no nonsense tone._

"_It was an accident. Morgan heard Reid scream and reacted," he said quietly._

_There was a moment of silence where all he could hear on the other line was the sound of someone typing fiercely on a computer keypad. Then, Strauss spoke again, "He'll be suspended."_

"_What?" he said, before he could even stop himself._

"_Suspended, Agent Hotchner. He put his team at risk, the case at risk, caused two agents to get hurt and very nearly let two criminals escape- despite what the _profiles_ said. He will be suspended. I will let you know when I determine the duration of this suspension."_

_His phone beeped. She hung up._

_He sighed and slammed his phone closed, resisting the urge to throw it. First Reid, now Morgan. What was happening to his team?Would they all be picked off, one by one, until no one was left? How would he be picked off? After everything he'd gone through- everything he lost for this job- would it all be taken away?_

_He didn't want to tell Morgan he was going to be suspended. He knew it would upset him. But, there was some good from this, and he hoped that the unaware agent would see it as well..._

"Where's Morgan?" JJ asked, having spent the last twenty minutes wondering what on earth Hotch needed to speak to him about.

"He's been suspended," Hotch said, turning to face the glass window closest to him. Varney sat behind the desk, his arms folded across his chest and looking around with all the manners of someone very bored instead of frightened for their fate. His stomach twisted and his fists involuntarily clenched. How dare he sit there, looking so casual, so unperturbed. After what he did to Reid. To all the victims. After he lied time after time to the team.

Why didn't he see it? Why didn't he see the monster that laid in wait? The monster that sat in the station with him?

"Suspended? What for?" JJ asked.

Rossi looked up, raising an eyebrow as he said, "Is it safe to assume it was because he ran after Reid and all the actions that followed it?"

Hotch nodded. "And the possible actions that could've occurred. He'll be gone for a year." Before the team could ask anymore questions or say anything in response, he turned to the windows once more and said, "So, how are we going to do this?"

"Whoever interviews Wright has to be careful about it. Their temper will have to stay in check since he'll only open up to people who he thinks will value his work instead of deplore it," Emily said, regarding the room where Wright was placed with a look of contempt.

Hotch nodded. "Rossi, you'll interview Wright. I'm sure you know which questions to ask. Emily, you and I will get Varney," he said.

Emily snorted ungracefully. "I'll keep you from going to jail on homicide if you keep me from the same thing," she mumbled, walking over to the room as Hotch followed. He said nothing as they opened the door and walked through, leaving Rossi to stare through the window.

"It doesn't matter how many times you do a case. It's always amazing to see what people are capable of. That a doctor could do something so harmful," he said, turning somewhat to JJ.

"Who was it who said that the belief in the supernatural source of evil is not necessary, as men are quite capable of every wickedness?" she asked with a fleeting, wry smile.

Rossi opened the door to the interrogation room, poking his head out into the hall to say, "Joseph Conrad," before disappearing fully into the room, reappearing in the window as he took the seat in front of Andrew.

xXx

"A year? What are you going to do for a year?" Garcia asked, chewing on the inside of her cheeks in rage. How dare they suspend him for that! He was doing his job. What did they expect him to do? Ignore Reid screaming?

Morgan shook his head, taking a sip of his coffee before saying, "I don't know. It will take some getting used to, that much is definite."

Garcia shrugged her shoulders and said with a playful smile, "You can start working on some hobbies, I guess."

He chuckled, leaning back in the slightly cushioned chair. They were sitting outside Reid's room, as per usual, and were waiting for Dr. Ostheim to emerge. He had gone in nearly thirty minutes ago and had promised that when he was done, he would tell them the specifics of Reid's transfer as well as update them. And so they sat for another twenty minutes, Garcia naming possible hobbies and Morgan shooting them down.

"Stamp collecting?"

"No."

"Model car building?"

"Hmm...possibly."

"Poetry?"

"Really, Baby Girl?"

"Alright, alright. Learn a new language?"

"So I'm in school now?"

"Fine, just do nothing then!"

Morgan chuckled.

"Agent Morgan, Agent Garcia," Dr. Ostheim said as he left Reid's room, smiling at them. They stood, their nerves too frayed to sit and remain still as they prepared to hear about his fate. "Well, I have some good news and some not so good news," he started and Garcia felt her stomach fall. Did something happen to Reid? Was he hurt too badly? Was he wrong about his initial diagnosis?

"The not so good news is that the nearest hospital with an opening is in Pennsylvania," he said, shrugging his shoulders sadly. "We tried to get him closer to Quantico, but it isn't possible right now. I'm sorry for the inconvenience."

"Pennsylvania? That seems so far," Garcia said, slumping her shoulders. She couldn't imagine living that way, having to make it a mini-vacation every so often to visit him, instead of part of her daily routine.

"What's the good news?" Morgan asked, biting his lip nervously.

Dr. Ostheim smiled here as he said, "He's healing wonderfully, his physical wounds are at least. It will take a couple of weeks before the stitches can be removed, and another couple of weeks before his leg should be fixed but he's doing very well. He might limp for a long while afterwards though, do to the damage that occurred from it not being reset after it was broken again. But other than that he'll be good."

Morgan sighed in relief. He knew Reid was strong. He knew he would pull through this. It would just take a little longer for his mind to catch up with his body. But it would. It had to.

"Also," Dr. Ostheim said, shooting a look to the room before turning back and leaning in, smiling as he whispered, "I know I said you can't visit him. But I just gave him a pretty heavy sedative because he was having some difficulties. He should be sleeping, so if you want and if you promise to be quiet and not disturb him, you can go on in and visit."

Wide, dazzling smiles dominated both Morgan and Garcia's face as they shared a quick, blissful expression. It felt so secretive, like a child sneaking a cookie before dinner. But as they both began slinking forward, walking on the balls of their feet in an attempt to create less noise, they were stopped by Dr. Ostheim calling Garcia back.

"Yes?" she asked, frightened that maybe only Morgan would be allowed.

"You haven't seen Spencer yet, have you?" he asked, knitting his eyebrows as he looked at her.

She bit her lip. "No, but-"

He raised a hand, silencing her as he snickered. "I'm not going to not let you in, I just want you to be prepared. I know you heard the report, but I just want to make sure you know that he doesn't look good. It'll be easier because he's asleep and won't display any of his psychoses, but it can still be startling. I just want you to know what you're going to see so you're aware," he said, and Garcia nodded slowly. She hadn't even thought of that. Would she be able to handle it, seeing him like that when just hearing what happened to him set her over edge?

She wrung her hands together, twisting the many rings on her finger as she chewed her lips and slowly followed Morgan into the room, peaking out from behind him when they finally entered.

She took a sharp intake of air and then let it out in a small, quiet sob when Reid came into view. He seemed so frail, so touch-me-not. His face, so hollow and pointed, and his body, covered in bandages. His broken leg was propped up by two pillows, and his arms, placed above the thin blanket, were scraped, long, red scratches running up and down the length. She could see even more bandages on his chest that ran to where the hospital gown covered it, wires and pulse monitors attached to him.

"Oh, Reid," she said, approaching his bed and kneeling on the floor, placing her hands on the mattress. Her fingers twitched, wanting to move closer and grab his hand but afraid to. Afraid it would break the fallacy of peace he had. Afraid it would wake him up. Make him scream. Make him hate her. So instead, she kept her hands twitching beside him, ignoring the tears that fell down her cheeks.

Morgan stood behind her, placing his hands on her shoulders and slowly kneading them with his fingers, his eyes not leaving Reid's face. He looked almost serene, sleeping like that. Almost. But he looked too unhealthy to be serene.

"I'm so sorry, Reid," Garcia said softly, pulling her rings off and putting them back on to keep her hands busy. "I'm sorry I wasn't there for you."

Biting her lip, she hesitantly reached out and touched her shaking fingertips to his long curls, brushing aside the light brown strands. His hair felt soft, freshly washed by a nurse- most likely while unconscious as he would have reacted violently to their touch. She brushed some curls back, lightly, letting her index finger very gently stroke his face, grimacing at the feel of his pointed bones. The doctor never said anything about malnourishment in his report...

"He'll get through it, Baby Girl. Don't worry," Morgan whispered into her ear, and she sniffled.

"I know. But...he shouldn't have to. He shouldn't have gotten into this mess in the first place," she responded, pulling her hand back unwillingly.

They sat like that for some time, and eventually Morgan squatted down, wrapping his arms around her and leaning his head against hers. She gripped his arm, unknowingly digging her nails into his skin as she cried. But he never said anything- it didn't hurt. Besides, she needed an outlet.

An hour had passed when Dr. Ostheim reentered the room, frowning at the two. He couldn't imagine what any of them were feeling- their partner who they felt they needed to protect, lying in a bed, beaten and psychologically damaged. He could tell that they all shouldered the blame, all felt responsible.

He didn't want to disrupt the two- didn't want to fracture their moment- but knew he had to. He had some more reports to give them and he had very little time to do so. Timidly, he cleared his throat, drawing their attention away from the patient.

"May I speak to you? Out in the hall?" he asked.

They shot each other a look before standing, turning to the doctor.

"Will we be able to come back in?" Garcia asked.

The doctor frowned and shook his head. "I'm afraid not. The nurses need to take vitals and perform some minor wound care while Spencer is asleep and the sedative will only give them three more hours to do so," he said sadly.

Garcia looked back down to Spencer and laid her hand on top of his own hand, squeezing very, very lightly. "You can get through this, Spencer. I know you can. And the moment you do, we'll all be there for you. We love you. I love you," she said, before bending down and placing a chaste kiss on his forehead, sniffling as she pulled away and removed her hand. "Good bye."

She stood back as Morgan moved forward, leaning against the head railings as he whispered in a voice so low, Garcia barely heard him, "I know I tease you a lot, man. But I promise you, if you get through this, I won't do it again. Not if you don't want. Hell, I'd do anything if it meant getting you back." He paused, taking a moment to stop and study his face. "You know, I got suspended from the team. For a year because of the way I reacted when I heard you scream. Is it wrong that I wouldn't change it, even if I could?" Reid didn't answer, though of course he couldn't. He was too deep in sleep.

Morgan licked his lips and added, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have let you go there alone. Please, just...just don't hate me. I couldn't stand it if you hated me. I know you're in there, Kid. And I'll keep digging until I find you."

He straightened himself, quickly turning away from him. He knew that if he lingered, if even for only a second, he wouldn't want to leave his side. But now, he was being forced to leave his side. And it felt even worse than when he did it voluntarily.

xXx

"Spencer's hallucinations are worse than I initially thought," Dr. Ostheim said slowly, hating the look of immediate worry and fear that settled over the two agents' faces. "While you were with him, I went back to some of our conversations, to create a file for the transfer hospital. And I've discovered some things that I overlooked at the moment of the interview, having focused on the more stand-out snippets.

"From what I've gathered, he's hallucinated more than just his father that one time. He's hallucinated him before, while in Andrew's care, and he's hallucinated your team."

Morgan gave him a look of confusion. "We know he thinks we're a delusion-"

"He told me he saw you all in his room, when he was still held captive. That you were all taunting him." Morgan paled as he fell back in his seat, digesting this new information. Dr. Ostheim frowned as he added, "Taking this into account, his prognosis is even...shakier to predict. And it gets even shakier still."

"How?" Garcia asked, dumbfounded. Wasn't it bad enough?

Dr. Ostheim swallowed. "While re-analyzing our sessions, I've discovered just how engraved Andrew's words were. Spencer has created an entirely new life, one that fit in with the life Andrew tried to create for him. This will make his treatment more difficult. It's no longer a matter of getting him to stop his hallucinations and realize the truth about Andrew, but it's now about making him erase the life he's convinced is his." He paused, watching as they shared a horrified, desperate look. "The psychological confusion this can create could be, well, irreparable. We may get him to stop hallucinating, but we may never get him to believe the life he's already written off as a delusion."

xXx

"Hello, Andrew," Rossi began, folding his legs as he sat down. Andrew looked to him, quirking an eyebrow at the familiar greeting.

"Andrew? You're the only one to address me so personally," he said and Rossi feigned a smile.

As he leaned in, he said to Andrew in a low voice, "That's because I get you. I know that you were only trying to help Reid, and all the other patients before him. My team- they don't have an appreciation for these sort of things. Very ugh..." he waved his hands in the air, trying to find the right words, "black and white. They can't see the end product on it's own. But I," he said, pointing to himself, "I can."

Andrew's smile grew, very slowly, and he couldn't help but say, in the same confidential voice, "You can?"

Rossi nodded. "I can. But I'm confused Andrew. I'm fuzzy about these experiments- what you were trying to do, how you were trying to do it and why. Would you mind answering these questions for me?"

Andrew's eyes narrowed and he seemed to be dissecting Rossi with his vision alone, trying to see if he could trust the man with such precious information. The rest of his team were so harsh to him, so reprimanding. They saw him like a criminal, just as he knew they would. But Rossi...he seemed almost genuine. Besides, he was going to go to jail- he might as well share all his knowledge while he could.

Shooting his tongue out to lick his lips, he said, "What do you want to know?"

"What were you trying to achieve?" Rossi asked, watching as Wright leaned back in his chair, and then leaned forward, his hands fidgeting as he spun the cuffs around his wrists, chewing his lip thoughtfully.

"I was trying to achieve...a cure," he said after a moment, his eyes flitting up to Rossi's dark, shadowed face and then turning back down to the table. "Can't you imagine what it's like? To be insane? To question everything? To think everyone else around you is out to get you? That the devil was really whispering into your ear?" He sat back, folding his arms over his stomach as he regarded Rossi with a scrutinizing look, his eyes narrowed.

"I wanted to help them. I wanted to give them hope. You know, there isn't a cure for schizophrenia. Just it's symptoms," he said, shrugging his broad shoulders, the metal of the cuffs clinking against the table.

"No one knows what causes it. Can't treat it if you don't know what to treat," Rossi said, rolling his shoulder nonchalantly.

"It's the control factor, they don't know. It's trial and error. Make someone insane, treat a specific part of the brain. Fail. Start over. It's just like a science experiment," Wright said, staring up to the ceiling almost dreamily, a faint smile ghosting over his lips.

Rossi folded his arms over his chest and leaned back. "Why though? Why are you so intent on finding a cure?"

Andrew stared at him, chewing the inside of his cheeks as he shrugged. "Spencer was perfect," he mumbled, looking down at his hands, folded on the table. "He had everything I needed for my experiments to work. Why'd you take him away?" He looked up to the man, his voice quiet and filled with sorrow, yet accusing as though he fully blamed Rossi for removing Reid from his care.

Rossi shook his head. "I didn't want to- I trusted your experiments. But my team wanted him. I needed to help." He sat in silence for a couple seconds before asking, "Why was Spencer perfect?" It felt weird, using Reid's first name. They had always referred to each other by their last names or nicknames. But he needed to place himself on the same level as this man. And if Andrew called Reid Spencer, than so would he.

"Spencer had just what I was looking for," he answered, a faint smile appearing on his lips. "He had schizophrenia in his family. It would be easier to manipulate him. Plus..." he stopped, licking his lips as his eyes flitted up to Rossi and back down to the table.

When he didn't continue, Rossi asked, " _'Plus'_ what?"

"Plus," Andrew began again, shifting in his seat. "He was just like me."

Rossi sat still for what seemed like an eternity. Andrew made no motion, and neither did he. It made sense now. All of it. He wasn't so attached to Reid because he was a good patient, he was so attached to Reid because he related to him. "You're mother...she's a paranoid schizophrenic?" Rossi asked.

Without looking up from the table, Andrew said, "I was always afraid I'd get the disease. Become just like her. I didn't want to live like that. I didn't like thinking of her like that- so sick- because I was afraid I was looking at myself, my future."

"You wanted to make sure that if you ever became like her, you'd have a cure to get you out of it," Rossi said. Andrew nodded slowly, and the agent continued to sit still, his mind consuming the new knowledge and working through it. He wanted to find a cure as a back up, should he ever develop his mother's disease. He didn't pick his victims because they seemed like a good subject to experiment on. He picked them because they reminded him of himself.

He didn't know why he didn't see it before.

His hair was dark brown, but he realized it must have darkened with age and was lighter when he was younger.

A small ring around his pupils suggested he wore contacts, and he realized they were colored. His real eye color was hazel.

He was over six feet. Maybe three inches above.

He was muscular, but his face was thin and his house was loaded with exercise equipment. He had worked hard for the body build.

Rossi didn't need Garcia to know that his mother was probably diagnosed with Schizophrenia when he was in his early twenties. And he didn't need Garcia to find school records that would claim him as being an intelligent, yet quiet and reserved students.

He tried to hide it. Tried to disguise himself to throw off suspicion.

But now that Rossi knew what to look for, he saw it all.

His patients weren't picked because they were his ideal type.

They were picked because he saw them as himself, when his fear of insanity was realized.

And Spencer...Spencer _was_ him.

xXx

"Well, hello there, Agents," Varney said snidely, his lips pulled back into a fierce snarl that only grew fiercer when he saw Hotch. "You practically castrated me," he growled at the man, making it difficult for Emily to hide her smirk.

"Upset that now you'll have to be the bottom?" she asked, raising one slender eyebrow. "Don't worry, I'm sure your cellmates won't laugh too much."

He frowned at her taunts, not finding it the least bit amusing. But before he could hurl his own insult, Hotch asked the first question of the interview.

"I'm curious, Varney. How is it that you came to work with Dr. Wright?" he asked.

Varney snorted. "And why should I tell you?"

"Because," Emily began, crossing her legs and smirking. "We can control your fate. You tell us, we can keep you from Capital Punishment. But if not...Well, we wouldn't hesitate to suggest it. So, which would you prefer? Telling us a simple story and being able to at least see your kids grow up. Or dying, leaving them behind, just because you wouldn't let us know something we'd find out anyway?"

Varney looked down at the table, his expression slipping into a more worried, thoughtful look as he debated the two situations. Hotch noted this, storing it into his mental file of Varney. He wasn't a sociopath- he cared about his kids, if not at least his wife.

It seemed like hours before Varney sighed in defeat and told the story...

_30 MONTHS EARLIER..._

"Daddy!" Lilly squealed, leaning over in her seat just as her father, Officer Heath Varney, settled in the driver's side of their modest Honda, about to turn the key in the ignition. He turned around in his seat, smiling at his daughter.

"Yes, Princess?" he asked, his smile fading when he saw he tearful eyes and her pouted lip. What was wrong? Why was she so upset?

She hiccuped with her cries as she said, "I..f-f-forgot L-Lu...L-Lucy!"

He tried not to roll his eyes. Really, he loved his daughter, but he hated how dramatic she- and most kids- were. But, to a four year old, leaving a stuffed turtle behind could be rather upsetting, he knew. And if he didn't go back to get it, the tantrum would be horrendous.

So sighing, he sat back up from his seat, turning to look at Linda. "I'll be right back. Hopefully, Angelo saw it and took it so it didn't get swept into the water," he said, rolling his shoulders as he straightened himself and closed the door, walking down the road to get to the bend in the guardrail. But after the short, three minute walk, he discovered a car that hadn't been there before, idling on the side of the road. He furrowed his brow, dismissing it as suspicious quickly. Maybe someone from Angelo's family had needed to get him for something and his cell phone carrier didn't provide reception up here.

He rose one leg, stepping onto the ground on the other side of the rail and then swung his other leg over, grunting as he precariously balanced. He always hated the climb over. Really, a more distinguishable pathway should have been made ages ago. But finally settled on the proper side, he began to descend down the sloping hill, watching his feet carefully to avoid stumbling.

But when a gold, furry object ran next to him, he gasped as he fell into the tree, watching as the Golden Retriever cocked his head at him.

"Gizmo?" he asked, quirking both brows. What was Angelo's dog doing over here? Wasn't he fishing?

A low growl emitted from the dog's throat before it barked, loud and resounding.

"What are you doing up here, Boy?" he asked, trying to reach out for the dog before it got away. But at the sound of a harsh, frightful scream, he stopped himself, his head quickly turning down to the creek. His hair was on edge, his blood was rushing, and his hand was now resting on the smooth handle of his gun. What was going on?

Forgetting about the animal behind him, he slowly stepped down the path, now more for secrecy than for caution. Something was happening, something bad...

When he finally stepped down to the rock, the branches of low-hanging trees now out of his way, his eyes widened at what he saw. A tall, strong looking man in a white lab coat stood over the jerking body of Angelo, who sluggishly swung his hand in the air in an attempt to push the man away. But Andrew just stepped back, letting the arm fall limp to his side. When Angelo moved no more, succumbing to some sort of toxin, he reached under him, one arm under his neck and the other under his knees as he hoisted him up. And suddenly, Varney jumped to life.

"Hold it!" he roared, his gun held out before him.

The man jumped, gasping as he pulled Angelo closer to him, turning to Varney with a look of horror. His skin was pasty with fear at having been caught. _'But what,'_ Varney wondered, _'did I catch him doing?'_

"Please, don't shoot!" he stammered , but Varney made no move to lower his gun.

"Put him down!" he demanded, and slowly, the abductor shook his head.

"I can't...please! I'll do anything!" the man screeched, breathing shallowly.

Varney lowered his gun slightly. This wasn't the way someone acted when they were caught in the middle of a crime. This was too hysterical, too deprived. What was going on?

Before he could ask another question, or even ponder the situation further, the man added, "I'll give you as much money as you want! I'm from a wealthy family! I could pay you well!"

It took everything Varney had to not let his jaw drop. He wanted to pay him off? What was so important about Angelo that he was willing to give him as much money as he could? Instinctively, he knew that this was no ordinary criminal. This...this was so much more.

Whether it was fate, or whether it was curiosity, Varney lowered his gun more and furrowed his brow as he asked, "What are you going to do with him?"

The man hesitated, looking around uncomfortably. He had said anything, but really, he didn't want to give his entire plan away to some stranger! But he had to do something, had to comply. He was caught in the middle of a kidnapping. He needed to get on this man's good side- particularly the side that didn't wave a gun in his face. So, clearing his throat, he said, "I...I'm trying to find a cure. For schizophrenia. I'm going to test it out on him."

Varney's gun nearly fell from his hands. This was certainly not an ordinary criminal. Oh no.

"You're...you're what? How?" Was Angelo even a schizophrenic?

The man licked his lips. "If I can make him insane, I can make sane," he reasoned. And as Varney was about to ask him how he planned on making someone insane, he added, "I'm going to...I'm going to torture him."

Why was he so willing to admit to his premeditated crimes? Was he aware that torture was a not so acceptable thing? Varney wanted to shoot him right then and there. Wanted to cuff him and get Angelo to a hospital. Wanted to lock him away. But he couldn't bring himself to move. Some part of his mind, a part he hadn't even been aware of, piqued at the mention of torture. He's recent..._games_ with Linda had been exciting at first, but had quickly lost its appeal when it got old. Less convincing. What if...what if he could recreate that excitement all over again? Regain that since of power? Part of him couldn't help the fantasies that rolled over in his mind, imagining the moment. Powerful, thrilling and...and real. He shivered at the concept. For it to be real...

"Officer?" the man asked timidly, and Varney lowered his gun completely, smirking slightly as he made his decision.

"I'll let you walk away with him, and not say anything, if you let me have my own sessions of _torture_," he said. The man's face paled even more as the understanding of his words overcame him.

"Absolutely not!" he shouted.

Varney shrugged, frowning as he raised his gun again. "Suit yourself then."

"NO!" he roared, before he even knew he was about to. "Please...anything but that. My patients-"

Varney shook his head. "My family would question me suddenly coming into money. That's the only thing I want. The only way I'll keep this secret."

They stared at each other, the man's heart beating fast and his breaths sounding strained. Finally, he said in a quiet, defeated tone, "Fine."

Varney smiled, his body on edge with the idea. It was frightening, the rush of anxiety and anticipation. It was overwhelming. But this could be the knew high he needed, the one that would work. So throwing his inhibitions from his mind, he and the man exchanged information and Varney let him drive off with Angelo, knowing he would receive a reward.

He was so excited by this turn of events, he had forgotten about Lucy, the stuffed turtle.

xXx

Hotch leaned back, his expression stoic after hearing the story. Well, that certainly explained a lot. They weren't working together because they wanted to, but because they needed to. _'A symbiotic relationship,'_ he mused. There was no other choice. In order for Andrew to stay out of jail, he needed to let Varney abuse his patients. And in order for Varney to get the rush of power he wanted, he needed to help Andrew with his crimes.

Emily was the first to speak at the end of the tale.

"We encounter guys like you all the time," she said nonchalantly, snorting out a strained laugh. "Guys who want power, but are too weak to work for it. Too weak to deserve it. You're sickening."

Hotch shook his head slowly, a sudden memory returning to him. "You asked me about him. You wanted to know more about him."

Varney managed a small smirk. "Destroying someone is only fun if you know just how much they could've amounted to before you got your hands on them." Suddenly, he turned back to Emily, leering. His smirk grew almost disturbingly wide as he formed a steeple with his fingers, leaning in as he said in a low, amused whisper, "Want to know what's really sickening, Emily? If you had gotten to Spencer one day sooner, just one day earlier than you did, he would've been sane."

Her dark brown eyes widened at his words. He didn't mean that did he? She hoped he didn't. Somehow, that hurt so much more. Somehow, knowing that they were just twenty-four hours away from saving Reid from another hell, but missed the deadline, made her heart and stomach jump into her throat.

"So close," Varney said in a voice filled with mocking. "So close, yet so far. And now Spencer has to pay because of your tardiness."

Her mouth opened and closed several times, blinking rapidly. He was lying. Wait, was she really hoping that Spencer had been broken, had been _defeated_, earlier than that, just because it made her feel less guilty? How wrong was that? How _sick_ was that? She couldn't believe she actually wished that his sanity had been lost long before they got there. But she did. And she couldn't convince herself otherwise.

How selfish...

"Two days before you got there, he was curling into himself, muttering over and over again- _'They are real, they are real.'_ And then..._snap!_" he said, snapping his thumb and middle finger together for emphasis. "And after that, he was _begging_ for Andrew to make him better."

Her lip twitched. No, Reid wouldn't beg.

But then again, she also always thought he would keep a clear head on his shoulders...

"You missed saving him, Emily. You got there too late. You _let_ us have him."

She was out of her chair and throwing a punch before Hotch could even process what was happening.

xXx

"Agent Garcia?" Dr. Ostheim said, surprised to see the blonde tech analyst in his office. It had been nearly two hours ago since he had given his unfortunate revised prognosis, and when he had left she was crying into Agent Morgan's shoulder. Her eyes were red and puffy now, her cheeks blotchy and her nose dry from overuse of tissues. But still, she managed a wavering smile.

"Just Garcia is fine," she said quietly, looking down to her hands. And that was when he saw it. The small pink bag with purple tissue paper exploding from the top. A gift?

Noticing his gaze, she held it forward and said, "I got this for him. For Spencer. I thought it would come in handy. Could you...could you give it to him?"

His heart ached. In all his years as an Emergency psychologist, he had never encountered a case so tragic as the one he was working now. And it just seemed to become sadder and sadder. She couldn't even give him a gift...

He bit his lip, nodding as he said, "Yes, of course."

She smiled weakly, laying the bag down on his desk. "I know you can't say that I was the one who got it for him, so I don't mind if you take credit for it. In fact, I'd prefer it. I know he thinks Andrew is helping him...and it would kill me if he thinks it was from that bastard. So, could you please just say you got it for him?" she asked.

Could his heart hurt anymore? It felt like what he imagined a heart attack would, so much twisting and wrenching.

"I will, don't worry," he mumbled.

She opened her mouth, as if to say thanks, but for some reason thought better of it. So instead, she waved once in a weak good-bye and left the office, small sniffles following her. Dr. Ostheim's eyes fell back to the package on his desk.

He shouldn't open it.

It was for Spencer.

But if he was going to take credit for it, shouldn't he know what it was?

Putting aside his manners and the respect he had for this heartbroken crew, he slipped his hand in the bag, carefully avoiding the tissue paper. His fingers brushed against a box, and he slowly pulled it out, looking at the gift that he would be handing over to Spencer.

It was a plug-in nightlight.

xXx

**Author's Note:**** Some people have said that a year long suspension is unrealistic and excessive. ****But I have to disagree. The real FBI (and by this I mean, not the television version presented in most shows, Criminal Minds included in this) are very strict with field behavior and punishments. I thought that, considering he _could_ have led to the death of two agents and the escape of two criminals, the suspension period would be longer due to the possible outcome. The FBI is very strict when it comes to following protocol in the middle of action. **

**ALSO! Longest. Chapter. Yet. Almost seven thousand words...Yikes. **

**Chapter Twenty-Three: Two Thieves (Preview)**

"I don't want to leave," Reid mumbled, looking at the doctor with wide, hazel eyes. Dr. Ostheim shivered with not only the intensity of his stare, but with the hollowness he saw in it. He never thought eyes could seem so flat, so devoid of shine. But he also never thought anyone could be so cruel to someone so innocent.

Shaking his gaze away from the listless eyes before him and looking to the floor, he said, "I'm sorry, Spencer. But this place can provide much better treatment for you than we can."

"But...what about Andrew?" Reid asked, shaking as he made his query. They couldn't take him away from him. Not twice.

Dr. Ostheim forced a smile onto his face. He hated lying to him, even though he needed to play along. He hated looking into the face of somebody so confused and so hurt, and just spouting out more lies and deceit. But regardless, he said, "Once Andrew is better, he will try to become your doctor there."

Reid sat in his bed, chewing his lip in thought. Finally, he turned to the man and said, "I won't go unless you let me say good-bye to Andrew."


	23. Chapter 23

**Disclaimer:****Criminal Minds and all its associated characters are property to CBS and no profit is being made from this story.**

**Author's Note:**** So sorry for the long wait for this chapter! I had some severe writer's block regarding this! **

**Chapter Twenty-Three: Two Thieves**

_'Many of us crucify ourselves between two thieves- regret for the past and fear of the future.' -Fulton Oursler_

"Dementophobia," Rossi said, sitting himself down on the swivel chair and leaning back upon entering the board room. The others were already seated around the table, three chairs empty where Morgan, Reid and Varney would have been and another chair filled where Garcia sat, her head bowed and her curly pigtails concealing her face. She had left the hospital in order to hear the results of the interrogation and help wherever she might be needed, her slim laptop opened in front of her and ready to search at a second's notice.

"Dementophobia?" Emily asked, furrowing her brow.

It took a brief, momentary pause for Rossi to answer, as though he expected the absent Spencer Reid to jump in and provide a complete psychological and statistical background to it. But when the timid yet enthusiastic voice didn't pipe in, he cleared his throat. _'Right. Hospital,'_ he reminded himself, shocked that he had forgotten something so important. But then again, he had spent years listening to Reid interrupt with facts. So expecting the same outcome, though impossible at the time, wasn't too bizarre of a thing.

"The fear of insanity," he said finally, as his mind said, in a voice very similar to Reid's, '_The phobic fear of insanity. There's a distinct, psychological and physiological difference between a fear and a phobic fear. The amygdala-'_ He stopped the voice before it could continue and added, "Rather, the phobic fear of insanity. I think Wright has a very mild case of paranoid schizophrenia as well as an extreme manifestation of dementophobia."

Hotch raised an eyebrow and leaned forward, interested. "Why do you say that?" he asked.

Instead of answering, he turned to Garcia, drawing the blonde's attention away from whatever was on her screen and to him. "Garcia, could you look up Wright's records from about twenty years ago and onward?" he asked.

She nodded, pressing her lips together as she turned back to her computer. She stared at the image of Reid she had pulled up, a picture of him wearing a goofy birthday cake hat and puffing his cheeks out as he tried, fruitlessly, to blow out the candles. She swallowed her throat to the tears that threatened to come before opening the needed programs and typing away, pushing the image of a happy, healthy Reid from her mind.

"Dr. Andrew Wright, Andrew Wright," she muttered to herself as she worked, all too aware of the waiting eyes of her colleagues. As unnerving as it was, she couldn't snap at them to mind their own business as it was, in fact, their business. _'Technicalities,'_ she thought, as she found the needed records.

"Ah, here we go," she said, scrolling down the page. "His mother was young when she had him- only fifteen years old. And was...oh." She stopped speaking, her eyes going wide and her jaw falling down as she stared at the sentence, rereading it several times in her head.

Rossi, understanding the source of her distraction, asked, "When was she diagnosed, Garcia?"

She jumped and looked to him, the rest of the team turning confused eyes in the same direction. But before they could ask, Garcia returned to the screen and said, "His mother was diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia when she was twenty-six."

Rossi nodded in thought. He had thought that the ages of the victims were based on Wright's age when his mother was diagnosed, but it would seem he was wrong. The ages were chosen based on _her_ age when she was diagnosed. Hadn't Reid celebrated his twenty-sixth birthday only several months ago?

"Oh my god," Emily said as her dark eyes widened. _It made so much sense..._

"So his mother was a paranoid schizophrenic and he inherited the disease but was unaware of it," Hotch speculated, biting his lower lip. "Dementophobia...Rossi, was he trying to find a cure to schizophrenia?"

Rossi nodded. "Reid was right. He wasn't hurting them for gratification. He was hurting them for experiments. He was trying to make them insane and then work backwards and try to make them sane," he said and was met with gasps of disgust from the team members around him. They had let Andrew succeed with half of his plan...

Shaking the thought from his head, he then said, "Their deaths were accidental. They would die as a result of the stress from all the experiments."

"So, he was so afraid of becoming insane, that he actually worsened his insanity?" JJ asked, her mouth pinched together and an extremely nauseous look about her.

"Yes," Rossi answered and then looked back to Garcia, saying, "What else does it say?"

"Um..." she hummed, scrolling down the screen. "His mom was diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia and when he was seventeen he moved in with his grandparents after she was hospitalized from a severe episode. He went on to go to medical school and..." She licked her lips and looked up to everyone, adding, "There's a report here, from his roommate. His roommate requested a room change after Wright accused him of plagiarizing all of his work and then poisoning his food. He was granted the change and no one looked into it further."

"His paranoid schizophrenia set in around college then," Hotch mumbled. Speaking clearer, he asked, "Keep going?"

She scrolled down the page, trying to find more relevant information when she stopped and said in a small, sad tone, "Oh no..."

"What is it? Rossi asked, sitting forward and moving closer to her. "What did you find?"

She swallowed. "About three years ago, his mother was found dead in her apartment. Coroner reports said she died from dehydration and accounts from friends and family said that she believed the city was tampering with her water supply," she said, looking up at her team. "She had been discharged from a hospital a year prior to that and was supposedly doing better."

Hotch stared down at the table, his nails digging into the leather armrests of his chair. She was in the Residual Stage and no one was paying enough attention to her to realize when she slipped back into the Active Stage." Sighing, he looked up to his team and said, "I think we found our trigger."

xXx

"_Mommy?" said an eight year old Spencer, his voice small and shaking as he cocked his head to look at her, thick framed glasses covering half of his face. The woman before him raised her head from where it had been laying in her crossed arms and looked at him, sniffling as she tried to force a smile on her face._

"_Yes, Baby?" she asked._

_His lip twitched slightly as he wrung his hands together, turning away from her gaze and looking out the window. Hues of purple, orange and pink tinged the clear blue sky as night began to fall, the colors coating the underside of fluffy white clouds that strolled lazily by. Had he not been gifted- for lack of a better word- with an eidetic memory, the scene would've made him forgot what he was about to say. Or perhaps, that he was going to say something at all. He wasn't entirely sure how the mechanics of forgetting worked, being that he always remembered everything with near perfect clarity, so he couldn't say with certainty what exactly he would've forgotten. But that was neither here nor there, as he remembered his question- not once forgetting it- and turned to his mother, his eyes large and watery._

"_Are you in pain?" he asked in a whisper, not wanting _him_ to hear his query. _

_His mom stammered for a moment before saying, "No, it doesn't hurt, Spencer."_

_He stared at her for several long minutes, as though he didn't quite believe her, before saying, "One day, Mommy, I'm going to stop him."_

_Her lips tightened and she swallowed, the familiar sting of tears burning her eyes. Diana Reid had always been very proud of her son- he was intelligent, he was ambitious, he was loving. But as much as she wanted to feel pride at those words, at the obvious display of courage, a different side of her won out and it felt like a hand was wrapping icy fingers around her heart and clenching. Between moments of clarity and lucidity, she was never sure which was best for Spencer. Give him two, unstable parents or one stable parent? As abusive as her husband was, there was a benefit to staying with him, one she couldn't throw away without consideration: he would take care of Spencer when she was unable. While she was ranting and raving about some imagined threat, he would take their son to his room and make sure he was alright._

_Even though Will Reid would take his drunken anger out on her and sometimes even their prodigal son, she had to admit that he was nothing but kind to the boy when she was too far gone from reality to care. Part of her wondered if it was her fault- he had shown that he could care for Spencer, and could be a fantastic parent, but only when he was the only parent to be attentive to him. As reluctant as she was to admit it, and she would never admit it to anyone but herself, she often considered leaving the two. Leaving so that Will would no longer feel the need to work stress away with alcohol and could be the parent Spencer deserved._

_She had heard the stories from her son, and they did nothing to help these plans to leave she had been thinking on._

"Dad brought me out to play baseball! He says I'm getting really good at it! Did you take your medicine?"

"Dad let me read my thesis to him. He said it was really well done and that he's proud of me. Are you listening to me?"

"Dad brought me out for ice cream today. I got vanilla with sprinkles but it fell so Dad gave me the rest of his. Mom? What do you mean? Of course I'm your son! No, your _real_ son!"

_It seemed that Spencer could always have a decent parent to rely on, but never at the same time. Either Will was abusive and Diana was comforting, or Diana was delusional and Will was comforting. He had no consistency to his life. He woke everyday wondering which parent would be the one he had to hide from and which would be the one he would run to. _

_Her melancholic thoughts were ended when she heard the hopeful voice of her son start up again, and she listened to him as well as she could despite the taunts her mind reeled at her._

"_I've been looking into some things online. You know, there's this job where you use psychological precedent and profiles to catch criminal. I think I'd like to do that. Doesn't it seem cool?"_

_She smiled and nodded, telling him he would be the best at whatever he did. He said he wanted to do it because he could help people and learn about the human mind. But she was schizophrenic, not stupid. She knew the real reason he wanted to do that was so that he could live the rest of his life helping people like his parents. _

_People caught in between two worlds._

_Caught in between reason and action._

_Caught in between wanting to help and wanting to hurt._

_Caught in between insanity and sanity._

xXx

Diana Reid rubbed at her eyes, a damp tissue in her hand as a calloused finger ran over the plastic sheeting of the photo album. A school picture of Spencer, age eight, sat beneath the clear cover, his small face looking even smaller behind his long hair and big glasses. He looked so innocent, so frail.

But that day...that day he told her what he wanted to be, that he wanted to join the FBI, he seemed the exact opposite. Strong, determined, unbreakable.

And now he was in a hospital, prognosis unclear, all because of the job he seemed so passionate about.

Deep down, she knew it wasn't Agent Hotchner's fault that something had happened to him- he had no control over what individual members of his team got up to. But she couldn't stop herself from saying what she said.

Spencer was her baby, her one and only child. Knowing that he was out there, doing what he loved and doing it well, got her through the cold and unfeeling institutional nights. What would get her through it now?

The real reason she had gotten so angry at the agent wasn't because she felt he had let Spencer get hurt. No, the reason she got mad was because she couldn't help the constant screaming in her ears from inside her head.

_'If you had just left and let Spencer and Will live together, he wouldn't feel the need to help you by helping people like you. You should've just left them alone.'_

A tear slipped down her chin and landed on the plastic film, a new page opened. It was a twelve year old Spencer, graduating from high school and preparing for college. He had to have a specially tailored gown made for him- not too many of the graduates were, as it turned out, four inches short of five feet. Yet despite the obvious height and age difference, he looked so happy, so accomplished.

She sighed, closing the book shut as she lied down in her bed, looking up at the cheap, drop in hospital ceiling. And as she fell into a fitful sleep, she wondered if her son was staring at the same ceiling in whatever hospital he was in.

xXx

"A nightlight?" Reid asked, holding the small device in his palm as he turned it over, inspecting it. Dr. Ostheim stood beside him, his green eyes lingering over the young man's face. He had gained weight, though not much, and the sickly yellow sheen to his skin had faded, leaving only the white paleness that, according to Agent Morgan, was his usual complexion. The bags were still deep and heavy under his eyes, but had gotten better, the color no longer resembling a poorly healing bruise. He was making good progress in the physical aspect of things, but it wasn't the physical aspect everyone was worried about.

"Yes, for your room. I know you don't like the dark, so I thought this might help," he said with a shrug, feeling completely and totally uncomfortable about taking credit for the gift.

Reid nodded, smiling slightly as he looked up at the man. "Thanks. It will," he said as the doctor took the light and plugged it in to a nearby outlet, pressing the small switch on top of it to bask the corner in a bright, yellow light. It encompassed a large portion of the room, and Dr. Ostheim knelt back on his haunches, surprised by how much light came from a little bulb. Shrugging his shoulders, he stood and turned off the main light, checking to see just how much light it maintained in the dark.

The golden glow of it fell across the room, illuminating Reid's smiling face as he looked at it. He hated his fear of the dark- not only was it embarrassing, but it was inconvenient as well. He was unable to sleep when it was too bright, and too frightened to relax when it was too dark. But this nightlight was perfect. It gave just the right amount of light to set his mind and heart at ease. No dark shadows, no unseen objects in the room...everything was in view, everything was clear. He could go to sleep without struggling to block out the glaring light and without having to worry about what he couldn't see. This just might have been the most practical gift he had ever received.

"I really appreciate it," he said to Dr. Ostheim, who was once more standing beside his bed, blocking the golden circle the device held. But Reid didn't mind- he knew the light was still there.

Dr. Ostheim smiled, making a mental note to tell Garcia about the success of her gift. She would be pleased to know he liked it so much. But now it was time to turn to unpleasant matters and tell Reid about what would be occurring in less than a week's time.

"You know, Spencer," he started, sitting down on the foot of his bed, creating a dip in the mattress that made the young man flinch involuntarily. "I found this one hospital that can help you out a lot. A lot more than we can. And I think it would be best if you go." There. He said it. No going back now. But he wished he could when saw the look of pure panic and fear that made Reid's face lose any semblance of color it had.

"I don't want to leave," Reid mumbled, looking at the doctor with wide, hazel eyes. Dr. Ostheim shivered with not only the intensity of his stare, but with the hollowness he saw in it. He never thought eyes could seem so flat, so devoid of shine. But he also never thought anyone could be so cruel to someone so innocent.

Shaking his gaze away from the listless eyes before him and looking to the floor, he said, "I'm sorry, Spencer. But this place can provide much better treatment for you than we can."

"But...what about Andrew?" Reid asked, shaking as he made his query. They couldn't take him away from him. Not twice.

Dr. Ostheim forced a smile onto his face. He hated lying to him, even though he needed to play along. He hated looking into the face of somebody so confused and so hurt, and just spouting out more lies and deceit. But regardless, he said, "Once Andrew is better, he will try to become your doctor there."

Reid sat up in his bed, chewing his lip in thought. Finally, he turned to the man and said, "I won't go unless you let me say good-bye to Andrew."

_'Damn,'_ the doctor thought. He had been afraid that Reid would hand out a few stipulations of his own. But now he was afraid of the responses he would receive when he told the team what Reid requested. And when he told them his professional opinion on the matter.

xXx

Hotch ended the call and placed his cell phone down on his bedside table, rubbing his eyes tiredly as he looked around the hotel room he shared with David Rossi. His roommate was currently in the shower, which he was very suddenly thankful for. He wasn't sure he could handle the questions that he would have to face after _that_ particular phone call.

Rossi would have asked him who it was who called and what it was regarding, and Hotch would be forced to tell him the truth: That Reid refused to leave the hospital unless he could say good-bye to Andrew. Wonderful.

Sitting up and pushing his book to the side, the book he hadn't quite read in two weeks, he stood and kicked off his pajama bottoms, finding a pair of jeans to replace them. He needed a walk. Needed to clear his head and think everything through. And it was with perfect timing that Rossi came out of the shower then, his hair scrubbed half-dry with a towel and pajamas on as he looked at the fully dressed Hotch, his eyes wide.

"Where are you going?" he asked, and Hotch shook his head, hoping he would let it go but knowing Rossi too well to actually expect it. So when Rossi folded his arms over his chest, he sighed. He would have to tell him about the phone call earlier than he planned to.

"I need a walk," he said, slipping his shoes on as Rossi did the same.

"I'll go with you," he said nonchalantly, looking down at his state of dress and shrugging, deciding navy blue sweatpants and an oversized gray shirt was alright for a nightly stroll. Hotch wanted to tell him no, that he needed the walk to clear his head and have time to himself, but one look at the experienced profiler told him he was out of luck.

But Rossi was too good at his job to not see that Hotch needed a moment of his own. He just chose to ignore it as he also saw that Hotch was highly distressed over something. And he'd be damned if he let the man wallow in his own uncertainty.

Together, they left the room, Hotch pocketing the key and taking the lead as they walked through the dimly lit halls off the hotel, neither willing to speak.

It wasn't until they left the town square of Phoenicia, nearly thirty minutes later, that anyone spoke.

"Dr. Ostheim called," Hotch said in a low, breathy voice and Rossi stopped suddenly, turning to face him as he narrowed his eyes. "When you were in the shower," Hotch added, continuing to walk which resulted in Rossi needed to sprint forward to catch up to him, no longer standing still as they walked side by side.

"And? What did he say? Is everything okay with Spencer?" he asked.

Hotch hesitated a moment, keeping his stride consistent as they walked past cabins and houses, recalling the conversation in his head. After what felt like five minutes, he said, "Spencer wants to say good-bye to Wright before he leaves."

Rossi said nothing. He just raised his brows and turned slightly to Hotch, walking a little slower as he examined his teammate's face. He then said, after much scrutiny, "And you think it's a good idea?"

There was no distinguishing tone in his voice that said whether or not he was for or against it, and Hotch once again cursed the fact that he was always surrounded by profilers. There was no hope of lying or even omitting certain aspects of something when they were around. But, then again, he assumed he wasn't much better when he was in the other position.

He sighed, looking around the darkening streets as he said, "I honestly don't know. On one hand, we can't control what Wright will say in those minutes. Even if we drag him out of the room, he'll still be able to say something to Spencer that could make it worse. On the other hand-"

"Spencer won't be able to move on without the closure?" Rossi interrupted, and Hotch breathed deeply through his nose, in and out, as he nodded.

"We probably won't even be able to make a deal with him," Hotch then added, shaking his head as he thought about the UnSub. "Chances are, he'll be deemed incompetent and sent to a criminally insane ward. So telling him we'll keep him from the death sentence won't really matter."

"Well," Rossi said with a shrug. "We could always get on his level of the playing field. Dr. Ostheim is playing along with Reid's delusions, and so, we should play along with Wrights."

Hotch looked at him, a small smile creeping on his face. "That could work. That way, they could both get the closure," he reasoned and Rossi nodded.

"Exactly."

They continued in silence for a near ten minutes after that, the dark shroud of night wrapping itself around the small town that was tucked into the mountains. The sound of the Esopus Creek running over pointed, clay covered rocks echoed in the open air as it intermingled with the chirping choruses of crickets. Every-now-and-then breezes would create a chiming whistle as it ran through the leaves and tall grass, cooling the already chilly air. Yet the air, so fresh and clean smelling, was a welcomed change, and felt wonderful to Hotch and Rossi's lungs. The protective mountain ranges stood tall above them, wrapping stony and dirt covered arms around the town in an embrace and it was hard to believe that not one, but two monsters once resided in such a sleepy, peaceful area.

"Do you think he'll be okay, Dave?" Hotch asked, his voice quiet and uncharacteristically lacking in conviction. Rossi was so thrown off by the tinges of hopelessness in his voice that he almost forgot to answer.

"He's a tough kid, Hotch. He's been through a lot in his life and he'll get through this."

If Rossi had been shocked by Hotch's defeated tone, it was nothing compared to the surprise he felt when Hotch rounded on him, his eyes like saucers as he said in a trembling voice, "What if this was the last straw? What if he can't fight...doesn't want to fight anymore?"

They stared at each other, dark eyes meeting darker eyes, as nobody spoke. Nobody but the crickets and lapping water broke the fragile silence, the question that remained swinging in the air. What if Reid didn't pull through? What if he couldn't? Or what if Reid did, and everything got worse? What if the realization of what really occurred at the hands of Andrew became too much for him. Was he better off not knowing the truth, better off living in a world constructed by trauma and fear? He might be living a delusion, but at least he seemed content with it.

So what if they pulled him out of it, got him stable, got him lucid...and he hated them for it? What if being sick was the better option? Would ignorance truly be bliss?

Hotch sighed and sat down on the guardrail, leaning forward as he bent towards the ground. They could be doing a disservice to him, trying to get him well. But for once, he didn't know what to do. Didn't know which option was the best option. And for the first time in a long time, this experienced profiler didn't know whether someone could be better off sane or insane.

"Hotch?"

He was barely aware of the sound of Rossi's voice calling to him. But after the third time his name was said, he looked up and saw the man in front of him, his eyes glazed over and his lip twitching nervously. His eyes narrowed. What was wrong? What had set him on edge? Following the direction of his gaze, which was set to his side, he saw what it was that had caused Rossi to grow uneasy and jumped from the guardrail, feeling as if he had been burned.

Together, they both stared at the offending bend in the guardrail that led down to the Flats. The offending, well-worn trail that led down to the rocks and water. The offending rocks and water that had been home to Reid's kidnapping. He hadn't even been aware of where their walk was taking them, but now deeply regretted stepping foot outside of the hotel room. The memories from that day- the day Reid was taken- came to the forefront of his mind, painted in perfect clarity, and he gulped uneasily, needing to find oxygen as the air around him seemed to run dry of it.

"Let's go," Rossi said, tapping his shoulder as he turned and walked back to the hotel, Hotch quickly catching up to him. But the waters that made up the Flats seemed to call to their retreating backs, whispering of the day they had officially lost Spencer Reid.

xXx

Reid pulled out the waistband of the jeans, raising an eyebrow at how big they seemed. Was Dr. Ostheim sure these were his clothes? They seemed too big. But, he supposed the were better then hospital gowns- and far less revealing. It had taken only nurse to see his exposed backside for him to realize that clothing was clothing and he would even wear a dress so long as it provided a proper back- which the gowns didn't, as he was sure the nurse would attest to.

Sitting back up on the bed and grabbing a simple white tee shirt, he tried to pull it down over his torso, but winced at the pain that pierced through his chest and sides as he reached above his head. He hissed, dropping the shirt and clutching the gauze covered wound below his collar bone with one hand while the other wrapped around his waist, trying in vain to soothe the throbbing ribs. Well, this would make getting dressed harder than he had originally planned.

While getting dressed wasn't necessary by any means, Reid had readily jumped at Dr. Ostheim's offer to procure clothes for his journey to this new hospital. He was not too keen on the idea of wearing a backless gown all the way from his room to an ambulance, even if he was being pushed around on a wheelchair. In fact, it was two days ago when the unfortunate incident with the nurse had first occurred that he decided clothing with backs was no longer optional. It wasn't his fault, and, being that she was a nurse, the human anatomy wasn't an unexplored thing to her. But still, walking in on a patient's solo attempt at working crutches while he was turned opposite from the door, the slit in the gown leaving little to the imagination, was probably not something she had been prepared to see. And it was certainly not something he would let happen again.

But the fact that he couldn't put his shirt on was already cracking a dent in that goal. His pants had been extraordinarily difficult, especially with his bulky cast, and he had been forced to lay down on his bed in order to pull them up without falling over. He had gotten them on though, which ignited an almost pathetic sort of victory in his mind. _'Feeling triumphant because you could put on pants by yourself. Oh, how much you've overcome adversity,'_ his mind sarcastically spat out at him and he rolled his eyes at the thought. It mattered little now, as that triumphant feeling was being slowly washed away as every second passed by and he still remained shirtless.

Taking a deep breath and stealing himself to prepare for the pain, he raised his arms again and tried to pull the shirt on, this time crying out in agony as his side lurched and his aching bones burned with an entirely new intensity. He grasped his side, cringing when the applied pressure only worsened the pain and choked out a sob, rolling his head to the side as his vision blurred.

Not only did it hurt more than he had thought it would, but it meant that if he had any intention on wearing a shirt today, he would need to have someone help him.

But part of him screamed at the idea of having hands on him, and his stomach did somersaults and played jump-rope with his intestines. He couldn't have someone help him into a shirt- just the thought of it made him queasy for reasons he was unsure of. But there was no way he was going to take the pants off after all the effort it took to put them on.

A knocking at the closed door made him open his tightly shut eyes. "Spencer?" Dr. Ostheim called, and he groaned in response. Why couldn't it have been a nurse? Telling a nurse he would need a hospital gown as he couldn't put his shirt on was one thing. But Dr. Ostheim was an entirely different thing. He had made such a big deal about being dressed and created such a fuss about getting dressed himself that having the man come in to this...this embarrassment made it more than embarrassing. It was now mortifying.

But before Reid had a chance to tell him to go away, that he was still changing, the door opened and the doctor poked his head in, smirking when he saw the sight before him. Spencer was lying on the bed, though he was sitting perpendicular to it in an almost capital T shape than lying down the proper way. His feet- one wearing a red sock and the other covered in plaster, were placed on the floor and his long legs were clothed in dark blue jeans, with the right leg of the denim pulled up and over his cast. Yet it was at the jeans that the clothing stopped and his bare torso was revealed to the world, his arms spread out around him and his shirt clenched in his hand.

Dr. Ostheim, now accustomed to the dark purple bruises along his side and the covered gunshot wound above his pectoral muscles, simply chuckled as he moved forward, crossing his arms with a dramatic flourish.

"Need help, Spencer?" he asked, bemusedly and Spencer groaned once more, his eyes clamped shut as though he refused to even look at the man who had, apparently, won the fight over whether or not Spencer could dress himself.

"I got the jeans on," he said, rather pitifully with his eyes still closed.

"Well, at least now you can't flash any of the staff."

Reid felt his cheeks heat up in humiliation. He just had to bring that up, didn't he? He was in the works of thinking up a witty, scathing come back when he felt a tug on the cloth in his hand and Dr. Ostheim say, "Here, let me help you get your shirt on."

As if switching gears, Reid instantaneously jumped to bend at the waist, whipping his arms out in front of him and shoving the doctor hard in the chest, a satisfying _'oomph'_ and _crash_ meeting his ears. He pulled himself quickly into a standing position, adrenaline rushing through his veins at the idea of coming so close to being touched. But when he left the stabling comfort of his bed, his knees wobbled and his injured leg strained with his weight until both knees gave in, Reid falling to the floor in a moaning pile of contorted limbs.

Yet his heart still raced and his veins still seemed to burn, as if they were pushing corrosive acid instead of blood through his body. And when he felt hands grip his arms and try to pull him up, the racing and burning increased tenfold, his unreasonable fear driving him haywire.

He didn't know why touch was setting him off so much, and somewhere in his mind he was embarrassed and outraged about his overreaction. But he couldn't stop himself from kicking his legs and flinging his fists around, clawing into everything they collided with. He wasn't even aware that the deep, throaty growls were coming from him, or that the high-pitched shouts of _"Nononononono!" _were being said in his own voice. He was aware of none of it, sent into overdrive by the hands that seemed to be itching along his skin, fingernails digging into him and raking their way up and down his body. They felt like bugs, burrowing into him, and he screamed with the desire to be rid of them, to scratch them all off.

But a pinching sensation and then a rush of sedatives in his shoulder ceased all movements and protests, and he fell reluctantly into the hands he tried to escape from.

xXx

Dr. Ostheim hoisted Reid's unconscious body up from the floor and placed him gently in his bed, calling for nurses as he began checking every inch of him to see if had been hurt during their struggle. Being a specialist in trauma, he knew all to well that even if Reid had no idea of what abuse Varney put him through, he would still react violently to contact. But he had no idea that even the mention of possible contact would be enough to send him into a post-traumatic rage. Certainly something to add to the files.

As two nurses rushed in and proceeded to take vitals, Ostheim ran two fingers across most of Reid's body, feeling for any abnormalities that could have occurred and happily finding none. Aside from an all-too-high heart rate, which was to be expected, Spencer was fine.

Ten minutes later, the nurses left and he took the opportunity to put Reid's shirt on, feeling particularly traitorous as it was this exact thing that had sent his young patient into a frenzy in the first place. But he had been so insistent on wearing clothes for his ride to the hospital that it seemed even more rude to simply put on another one of the much hated gowns. And he most certainly would not take off his pants- he couldn't imagine what Reid would feel if he awoke without them on.

He pulled the shirt over his head and then gently pulled his arms through, all the while apologizing repetitively as he worked. This was the part of his job he hated: seeing the effects of a trauma on someone so innocent.

He sighed, pulled away as he finished dressing him, deciding that he would take his lunch break to finish packing for Reid, seeing as he wouldn't be able to now that he was unconscious. Grabbing the duffel bag his team had brought in for him, he began to place everything inside it- and by that, of course, he meant the large quantities of gifts his friends had brought him. Thankfully, he had been able to play it off as if various nurses and other hospital staff had purchased the objects for him, as he was unable to morally accept credit for so many.

A stuffed giraffe, stuffed penguin, and traditional style teddy bear were the first of the gifts to go in the bag. Then came a blue and green quilt, followed by a hand-knitted hat- one of Garcia's proudest. The night-light was the last to be put away, and he took extra care to wrap it inside the quilt to ensure it had some padding for the trip.

Zipping it up, he placed the bag on top of a separate suitcase, which was filled with some clothes the team had given him. From what he understood, they would be taking the rest of his luggage back with them and had set aside some of the more leisurely outfits he had brought with him for his long-term hospital stay. Of course, the word _leisurely_ was being stretched in its definition, as Reid's idea of leisure suits were still far dressier than most. But his suitcase was still full, with several jeans, button down shirts, various tee shirts and flannel pajama bottoms along with multiple changes of undergarments. His laundry days would be erratic, but it would get him through his stay, provided he didn't gain or lose too much weight.

Surveying the room one final time, he saw that he had gotten everything and with a final look to Spencer, left in order to prepare for the team's final visit, Andrew Wright being dragged with them.

xXx

Morgan had been sitting in his usual chair besides Reid's room when Garcia came in, biting her lip and moving her rings around her fingers as she approached. He stood, his brow knitting as he immediately sensed something was off. Very off.

"Baby Girl, what's wrong?" he said, grabbing onto her elbows as she continued to worry her lower lip, glancing away from him as he tried to search her eyes.

"You're not going to like it," she mumbled, settling her eyes on the plague beside Reid's door that denoted his room number. She had about five minutes to tell Morgan that the team was on their way with Wright in tow, explain why they had brought him in the first place, and calm him down. Five minutes. She swallowed harshly, knowing she probably should've headed up sooner. He wasn't going to respond well, and she knew it.

"You're scaring me, Sweet Thing," he said, his deep voice rising an octave as he tried to meet her eyes once more.

_'Just get it out,'_ she thought, clearing her throat nervously. _'Just say it and spare yourself the wait.'_ Taking a deep breathe, she said, in one long, exhausting exhale, "Wright is coming up here with the team because Reid refused to leave without saying goodbye to him!"

There was a slow, deathly minute that ticked by where she was thoroughly convinced time had stopped, Morgan gaping at her openly after her confession. But just as she was raising her arm to snap her fingers in front of his eyes, he jumped, anger pulsing through him.

"What? They're bringing _him_ up here?" he shouted and Garcia grabbed his arm, trying to pull him away from Reid's room. She wasn't sure, but she didn't think hearing his hallucinations would be any better than seeing them. Surprisingly, she was able to move him down several feet, his attention too focused on what was said to really care about whether or not his feet were moving.

"Alright, relax!" she said, waving her hands in front of her. How much longer did she have? Whatever it was, it wasn't enough time.

"But...why..." he said, too furious to speak and Garcia jumped in, taking the initiative.

"He needs the closure, Morgan. If we can get Wright to say that he won't be taking care of Reid anymore, than Reid will be able to get the notion out of his head!" She looked at him, reaching out to hold his hand and rub her thumb into his palm as she said, "It will be better this way."

He shook his head, looking back to the room as he licked his lips. "What if he tries to-" he started, but Garcia cut him off.

"He won't. Rossi and Hotch made sure he wouldn't."

His eyes never turned away from the room, not even when he heard the shuffling sound of many footsteps behind him, his mind lurching at the sound. He knew that one set of those steps, one of the people marching down the hall, belonged to Andrew Wright.

"I hope you're right," he said, letting the team pass him, the UnSub in the middle of the group, much to his chagrin.

xXx

"Is Andrew almost here?" Reid asked impatiently, kicking his feet in the air as he sat in the cushioned chair beside the little table, a barely-touched meal in front of him. Dr. Ostheim smirked at his actions, perched on the empty and bare bed as he finished signing off some discharge papers, slightly sad to see the young man go. He had grown quite attached to him- not just the case or the peculiar situations surrounding it, but the man himself. He would most definitely be checking in on him, he already knew.

"Finish eating," he said, ignoring the question which caused Reid to huff, his shoulders slumping forward.

"It doesn't taste good," he said. It was true, the food wasn't exactly what he would consider of high- or even medium- caliber. But the real reason he wasn't eating was because he was too nervous. Seeing Andrew for the first time in two weeks and then leaving for an entirely new, far away hospital had been more than enough to pull the strings surrounding his stomach tight. His appetite was effectively cut off and he would use any excuse- no matter how childish- to not have to force it down.

Dr. Ostheim chortled. "It's going to be a long ride, Spencer. You'll be hungry."

He shrugged. "I'll be hungry then."

The doctor looked over to him, frowning and sighing in defeat as he said, "I'll get you some granola bars for the trip." Reid smiled wide, grateful for having such an understanding doctor working his case. Well, not anymore. He was being transferred.

His smile slipped and he turned down to his meal of "grilled" chicken and yellow rice, biting his lip in thought. He wasn't sure which doctor he would miss more, now that he thought about it. Part of him, a larger part than he'd care to admit, was more fond of Dr. Ostheim while another part of him seemed to hold almost obsessively onto Andrew. He hated not knowing the origins of his feelings, and hated even more the dependent way he felt whenever he thought of Andrew. But he supposed it was just an unfortunate side effect of the schizophrenia and hoped that it, too, could be treated.

Dr. Ostheim reached over and pulled the tray away, walking to the door and handing it to a passing nurse as he asked for some granola bars and whatever snacks the male nurse could find. He nodded and continued on his way as the doctor returned, smiling at Spencer.

"Andrew should be here soon," he said, and Reid nodded.

"And then I'll be leaving?" he asked, raising a brow.

"Yes, you will be. Are you upset about that?" he asked, and Reid shrugged, looking back down at the table. He sat like that for ten minutes, ignoring Ostheim's attempts to start a conversation. He only jumped when he heard a deep, booming voice shout.

"What? They're bringing _him_ up here?"

His eyes widened and Dr. Ostheim thought fast, trying to distract him from what he obviously thought was a hallucination.

"Andrew should be here in a couple minutes, actually," he said.

That worked.

Reid was literally sitting on the edge of his seat now, his hands gripping it as if he would float away if he wasn't supported to something. It would've been amusing if it weren't so tragic, but it had at least been effective in keeping his attention away from Morgan's shout.

Dr. Ostheim turned away from him then, taking the time to prepare the wheelchair for Reid's departure when he heard the door opening and the sound of a chair falling to the ground. He looked up at the noise, watching as Reid wrapped his arms around Andrew's waist.

xXx

When Andrew walked through the door, flanked by two armed, unfamiliar police officers, Reid felt his heart swoon and was out of his chair in an instant. His arms wrapped around Andrew's waist, and tentatively, the man returned the gesture, holding him back tightly as he heard the police officers move closer. A throat cleared and Andrew was gently pushing him away, although Reid had the suspicion that it was at the unspoken request of the officers that he did so.

Come to think of it, why were there police officers?

"Andrew, what are the cops here for?" he asked, his brows knitting together as he looked to Andrew and the two men in question, each obviously trying to avoid his eyes. Andrew licked his lips and sent a fleeting look to the uniformed men.

"I'm in some legal trouble, Spencer," he said.

Dr. Ostheim moved closer, clearing his throat as he added, "Yes, his license is being revoked."

Reid's eyes widened. If he was having his license revoked than he wouldn't be able to be his doctor anymore! No! He needed him to be his doctor! He needed him to get better, to become sane! His head was shaking to his sides rapidly, brown curls bouncing with the movements. They couldn't take him away again. He was his!

"Spencer, don't worry. There are many other doctors who can take care of you," Andrew said, but Reid continued to frantically shake his head, biting hard on his lower lip.

"No, you...you were going to help me! You were a good doctor! You were helping me!" he argued, and Dr. Ostheim curled his hand into a fist, knowing very well that it wasn't Reid's words, but the words Andrew had instilled in him. The thought of what torture Reid had gone through in order for them to be so engraved in his mind that he was convinced they were his own angered him. But he knew throwing a punch at Andrew would in no way help the situation. So he stood back, watching the interaction as indifferently as he could.

"Other doctors will help you, Spencer," Andrew said. He then looked to one of the police officers and added, "I need to go now. Will you be alright?"

Reid looked at him, his hazel eyes wide and pleading as his lower lip stuck out and trembled. No, he wasn't going to be alright. They just told him Andrew wouldn't be his doctor anymore. Why would he be alright?

"The doctors over there are very competent. They'll take good care of you, you know," Dr. Ostheim cut through his thoughts and Reid blinked in response, reaching his arms out and hugging himself. He believed him- he really did. He knew the kind doctor wouldn't lie to him. But he couldn't help but feel like part of him was being taken away, thrown to the side as if it didn't really matter to anyone. He needed Andrew...didn't they see that?

"But...I..." he stuttered, and Andrew interrupted him.

"Don't worry, Spencer. You'll be fine. You're in good hands," he said, his lips twitching into a timid smile. Reid simply stared at him, suddenly angry that he had turned his back on him. How dare he? How dare he promise him a cure when he was unable to give it to him? How dare he promise so many things, just to turn tail last second and leave? He wanted to scream at him, yell at him for not following through with him. But he couldn't move his mouth. He couldn't bring himself to form words and instead, folded his arms over his chest and turned away from him, angry.

"Spencer?" Andrew called, and he made it a point to not turn around.

He didn't need him. He wouldn't let him promise his help, only to have it taken away again.

Andrew sighed. "Good bye, Spencer." He refused to turn around.

He didn't turn around when the door opened and closed.

He didn't turn around when Dr. Ostheim said he would be back in five minutes.

He didn't turn around when the door opened and closed, again.

He didn't even turn around when he heard his father's taunting voice from the doorway.

xXx

**Author's Note:**** Am I the only one who's jealous of the nurse who walked in on Reid? Must've been a nice show. Haha. Anyway, OFFICIALLY the longest chapter. Over eight thousand words! God, that would have been awesome if it was over nine thousand. Epic Vegeta moment. Anyway, about two more chapters left. Woot! **

**Chapter Twenty-Four: Photographic Memory Part. 1 (Preview)**

The sunken, graying faces surrounded him, chilling the air and filling it with the gut churning smell of death. Hands reached out to him, bloated and cold with death and Reid cringed away from them, trying to disappear into the mattress. Why couldn't they just leave him alone? Why were they here?

Black thread hung from their lips, as the same bloated fingers reached up and pulled away the stitches that held the eyes shut, stretching them out until they snapped. He flinched involuntarily, the action making his stomach tighten into knots as he curled more into himself, swallowing.

"Go away!" he roared, covering his head with his hands as the five corpses surrounded him, freeing their eyes of the thread so that they could see him. How come they wouldn't leave?

"Spencer!" a voice called, and he groaned, knowing it was the voice of another hallucination. Morgan came into view then, a folder in his hand as he walked through one corpse, causing the illusion to evaporate into a foul smelling cloud of gray dust.


	24. Chapter 24

**Disclaimer:****Criminal Minds and all its associated characters are property to CBS and no profit is being made from this story.**

**Chapter Twenty-Four: Photographic Memory Part. 1**

_'You're not so far away- you're sitting in the space between the night and day. And so I'll wait for the sound of your footsteps, the tea that's brewed too strong, the part of me that's waited patiently for oh so long...' -Emilie Autumn, Photographic Memory_

_THREE MONTHS LATER..._

Reid shivered against the cold, metal blade of the scissors as they snipped at his hair, frowning when he saw the curls fall into his lap. Why did he agree to this again? Oh yes, that was right. He never agreed to it. But he had just been so fond of this nurse, Tori, that when she glared at his hair and said it got more knots than lanyard string at summer camp, he couldn't help but let her cut his hair if it made her happier. She was the kindest nurse here, always visiting him and always giving him treats and presents. How could he not let her do it?

But he couldn't help the frown he felt every time another curl fell.

Polished acrylic nails ran across his scalp and he cringed at the touch. Tori was the only person whose touch he didn't completely shirk away from, though he wasn't entirely sure why. Perhaps it was because she had always been gentle, doing nice things for him instead of trying to shove needles into him or something equally as unpleasant. The first day he had come to the hospital and had been sedated after an impatient doctor had tried to hurry him along by touching his shoulder, he woke up to her brushing his hair and humming an unfamiliar tune. It had become a tradition of sorts, for her to brush his hair. But in the last two weeks, she had been dismaying over the unkempt state of it that came with the length. Not to mention the fact that she probably pulled out half of his hair while trying to brush through the knots.

On second thought, a haircut wasn't the worst thing he could experience.

"I used to love your hair, you know," she said, her voice lilted as though singing. "It was so soft and pretty. But now it's just too long. I think it was longer than mine." Okay, that was an exaggeration! There was no way his hair had gone past his shoulders!...Right?

He reached down and grabbed one of the clumps of his hair, holding it out before his eyes as he examined it. Hmm, it had gotten quite long. But still, it was an exaggeration.

"Your hair will grow back fast though. It's very healthy," she added, making some final adjustments before running her fingers over his entire head, dislodging any remaining strands. He flinched, but righted himself quickly. He hated doing that around her, but he just couldn't help it. He hated hands.

She was standing in front of him now, smiling widely as she examined her handiwork. "Pretty good," she murmured and Reid shifted in his seat, uncomfortable with being looked at for so long. She laughed though, turning around to grab the hand held mirror and holding it out in front of him. "See for yourself," she said and he moved closer, his eyes going wide at his reflection.

She cut it all off! Brown curls barely even went over the tops of his ears and they couldn't have been more than an inch and a half in length. That most certainly explained the lightness he felt on his head. He chewed his lip and turned his head to the side, examining it some more until eventually a small grin appeared. It was short, but it looked nice.

Tori smiled as she pulled the mirror back and put it down on his desk, looking at the gold watch on her wrist and _tsking_.

"What?" Reid asked, leaning forward.

She smirked, pulled her black, braided hair behind her back as she said, "Movie time."

Reid groaned. He hated the movies, he really did. They never played anything even mildly entertaining- a large majority of it being romantic comedies or, even worse, family movies. But of course, anything was better than the Lifetime style movies they often forced upon them. He couldn't remember much of his life before he became insane, but if he liked movies before, he definitely didn't now.

"Please don't make me watch it," he groaned, and Tori chuckled at the dramatic way he slumped forward. She seemed to enjoy his displeasure.

"You know as well as I do that it's mandatory," she said.

He sighed. "I know."

"Don't you want to show off your new haircut?" she asked, as though it should be enough incentive for anything. He rolled his eyes.

"Yes, because that's reason enough to be bored by some overly sappy family movie," he muttered.

"It's _The Day After Tomorrow_, actually," she said, suppressing a laugh.

He quirked a brow. "They've played that so many times, I have had nightmares about it happening. Please don't make me watch it again," he said, knowing it wasn't a total lie. For all they knew, the dream he had where he was caught in an avalanche with a talking elephant could very well have been because of that movie. And he'd be damned if he wasn't going to play all his cards to get out of movie time.

Tori sighed and shook her head, ruffling a hand through his newly cut hair as she said, "I'll go speak to Dr. Forte and see where she stands on the issue." She left the room then, her sneakers squeaking on the clean linoleum as she went.

He sunk back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling as he propped his legs up on the table, wearing one green sock with yellow polka dots and one purple sock with blue stripes. Tori had taken to buying new socks for him, making it a nearly weekly occurrence. He had more socks than any one person would ever need by now, and he was beginning to think that she was being _too_ nice.

He was startled from his thoughts by the sound of whispering coming from behind his back and the hair on his arms stood up straight. He swallowed nervously, closing his eyes as he tried to ignore the ever increasing sound. Praying that Tori would return soon and take his mind off of the hallucination, he pressed his forehead against the wood of his desk and began muttering softly to himself.

"Not real, not real, not real..."

His mantra was broken by the throaty, cracked voice calling his name out, slurring the _S_ sound.

"Ssssspenssssser."

His train of thought broken, he turned around slowly, deciding after it was too late that it was by no means a good idea. Five corpses, naked, gray, sewn together, stood in the corner of his room. And he screamed. Loudly.

xXx

"The answer is the same as the last thousand times you asked the question, Agent Morgan. No," Dr. Forte said, shaking her head sadly as she rolled her shoulders forward and pinched her lips. The tall man in front of her huffed indignantly as he crossed his arms over his broad chest, his lower lip being sucked in as he began idly chewing on it in thought.

While Morgan always agreed with the Patient-Doctor confidentiality, he was beginning to think that this doctor put too much stock in it. Really, just because he wasn't an _active _FBI agent at the moment didn't mean he didn't deserve to know the more specific details of Reid's stay. He opened his mouth to argue this point, ready to say every guilt-descending, brown-nosing line he had to when, after a moment of thought, he snapped his mouth shut. He was lucky enough that they tolerated his almost endless presence in the hospital, every nurse and doctor feeling too sorry for his friend and his situation to tell him to go home even when visiting hours had well since passed. Even if he couldn't visit Reid, sitting in the same ward as him, close enough to help if the need ever called for it, made him feel better. It pushed the still lingering guilt to the side and abated it some, like he was slowly working off a debt that would most likely never be paid even after his death. That being said, he wasn't willing to argue with Reid's doctor in case this unspoken arrangement would change and he would be forced to no longer visit the hospital. The operative word being forced, as he was well prepared to fight any of the "rent-a-cops" he needed to if they tried to take him away from Reid.

He sighed as he let his finger flick over the well worn folder he held in his lap, the one he carried with him everywhere as a child does with a security blanket. He had started carrying the folder with him since the case closed and he moved up to Pennsylvania, knowing Hotch would've been disappointed that he saved copies of such precious information. But he couldn't help it- it made him feel better, made him feel like he actually did _something_ right. He was about to open the folder when Dr. Forte sighed tiredly, drawing his attention back up to her face.

She was probably in her early fifties, with strawberry blonde hair that seemed lighter towards her temple, where the first few signs of aging took their toll. Her eyes were a clear and brilliant blue, but always seemed shadowed by exhaustion- the way he imagined his would look in the future, when his job and the monsters he dealt with began to weigh him down. But nonetheless, she was kind to him and more than accommodating, always being lenient on Morgan. And he had a well founded suspicion that she was about to accommodate him more and give, if not all, then some of the specifics regarding Reid. Which was more than he could ask for.

He watched as she took off her glasses and placed them down on her desk, rubbing her eyes momentarily before looking up at him and smiling wearily.

"I can't tell you much about what has occurred in our private sessions. Confidentiality, you understand." She paused, waiting for him to nod before continuing. "But I can say some less substantial pieces of his treatment." Morgan leaned forward, his hands covering the folder protectively, as he waited for whatever she would say. She smiled at his eagerness. "From what Tori, one of the nurse's here, has told me, he's mentioned to her that the hallucinations are getting better. He no longer hallucinates his father, or your team. Now, he only hallucinates about the bodies."

Morgan's brows furrowed deeply here. Bodies? He had never heard anything about him hallucinating bodies. How come they never told him?

_'Suspension,'_ his mind answered for him. Right. That was it. Stupid suspension.

Clearing his throat, he asked, "What do you mean by bodies?"

Dr. Forte hesitated before correcting herself. "Corpses, actually. He's told Tori that he sees-"

"Dead people?" Morgan asked in disbelief, some part of his mind well aware of the fact that this would have been a funny situation had it not been a one he was directly tied to. _'Nothing's funny when it's you,'_ he supposed, deciding that no matter the parallels to the movie, this was not a humorous thing to have happen.

The doctor nodded primly. "Yes, essentially. He says there are always five of them- always the same. We're not sure what particular significance they hold but-" She was cut off by the sound of someone knocking on the door.

Sparing a quick, apologetic look to Morgan, she called, "Come in." But Morgan was no longer paying attention, his astute, analytical mind honing in and tearing apart what she had told him. Reid was only hallucinating one thing now- and it was corpses? Five of them? If he was correct, then what Reid was seeing weren't just any corpses, but the corpses of Andrew Wright's five other victims.

He continued to contemplate the possibility until he heard the name of the person on his mind being spoken. His head shooting up, he listened to the conversation between Dr. Forte and Tori carefully.

"Spencer doesn't want to watch the movie tonight. Is it alright if we skip out?" the kind, dark-skinned nurse asked as she twirled her braid around her finger, watching as Dr. Forte bit her lip.

"Tori, you know he can't skip out on the movies. It's part of the routine," she began, but when a cracking and high-pitched scream ricocheted off the white walls, everyone in the room froze, Morgan leaping to his feet. It took only a second longer of listening for him to recognize the voice with picture clarity.

"Reid!" he roared, sprinting from the small office as fast as his long legs would carry him, the folder clutched in a vice like grip as he followed the scream.

When he found the room that contained the yells and saw the panicked, shouting face of his friend as he sat back on his bed, falling to the mattress, he ran inside only to come to a halting stop, his feet refusing to move. Reid was pressing himself as far into the mattress as he could, writhing his limbs around as though if he struggled hard enough, the bed would open up and swallow him whole. He was flinching from the illusions- the _corpses_- and his mouth was quivering with fear as his eyes were open wide, unwillingly staring at the hallucinations that no one but him could see.

And as much as Morgan wanted to reach out to him, wanted to make the effigies disappear, he couldn't move. He was stuck in place, horrified and pained by what he saw. He hadn't seen Reid hallucinate. He only saw him confuse him and the others for hallucinations. But this...this was something else entirely! To see his friend so broken, so frightened by not-even-there ghosts had petrified him and glued him to the spot he wavered in, unable to even step forward.

"Go away!" Reid yelled, gripping onto his short hair and wanting to cover his eyes, but too morbidly fascinated to do so.

Morgan's heart was running faster than what was healthy now. He wanted to turn away, to walk out and wipe clean the image of Reid suffering from his mind. To pretend it didn't happen, that he didn't see his friend being haunted the way he was. Was that wrong? Did it make him a bad person that he preferred to isolate the sick, traumatized Reid from the one he had long since known? The overly awkward, genius Reid who was nowhere to be found?

It was Dr. Forte's demands from down the hall that set him into action.

"He needs a sedative!" she called, and Morgan's heart jumped into his throat. He hated when they did that- sedated him. It seemed like they were trying to hold the problem off, keep the real issues and work at an arms' length instead of helping him.

It was that thought process the made him run to Reid, open the folding as he came closer and calling his name, prepared to show him what he hoped would help. Dear God, how he hoped it would help...

xXx

The sunken, graying faces surrounded him, chilling the air and filling it with the gut churning smell of graves. Hands reached out to him, bloated and cold with death and Reid cringed away from them, trying to disappear into the mattress. Why couldn't they just leave him alone? Why were they here?

Black thread hung from their lips, as the same bloated fingers reached up and pulled away the stitches that held the eyes shut, stretching them out until they snapped. He flinched involuntarily, the action making his stomach tighten into knots as he curled more into himself, swallowing.

"Go away!" he roared, covering his head with his hands as the five corpses surrounded him, freeing their eyes of the thread so that they could see him. How come they wouldn't leave?

"Spencer!" a voice called, and he groaned, knowing it was the voice of another hallucination. Morgan came into view then, a folder in his hand as he walked through one corpse, causing the illusion to evaporate into a foul smelling cloud of gray dust.

Reid turned to him, swallowing nervously as he reached out, unsure of whether he was doing so to push him away or ask for help. Morgan looked down at the outstretched hand and then pulled a plethora of what appeared to be photographs from the folder, placing them in Reid's hand before he had a chance to retract it and shoved them forward.

"I don't want it," Reid said, angered that, at a time like this, Morgan would insist on making him look at pictures. _'Hallucinations aren't one for courtesy,'_ he thought to himself, ignoring the mild confusion at having seen Morgan. He hadn't hallucinated the team in nearly a month. Why was he all of a sudden making an appearance now?

"_Ssssspenssssser,"_ the corpses hissed, their voices molding together into one, echoing chill. He winced at the sound and involuntarily moved closer to the profiler, seeking comfort in his liveliness. Whether or not he was real, he at least didn't look dead and that provided more comfort than the other illusions.

Morgan leaned forward, trying to hold the pictures up for Reid to see, but he was too focused on the hissing, sewn together faces before them, the dead skin making his own skin crawl. "Nonono," he whispered, trying to move Morgan away as he simultaneously moved closer still. Perhaps he was the lesser of two evils, despite trying to force the photos on him.

But when he felt a firm and calloused hand reach out and grab his chin, his attention was fully turned away from the corpses, staring at Morgan in an offended manner as he tried to move out of his grip. But it was too strong, Morgan wouldn't let go, and he began to panic, his fear of hands returning with a new intensity.

"Let me go!" he shouted, turning his fists to Morgan who simply avoided the weak punches and pushed the pictures in his face.

"Look at the photos! Reid, you're not making them up!"

What? What did he mean he wasn't making them up? Was he referring to the corpses? Looking around at their terrifying, ghoulish visages, the eyes fluttering open with the last of the thread, he nearly scoffed at what he said. Of course he made them up! Where could these...these _things_! exist anywhere but inside his diseased mind? Surely, he never saw anything like this in his life before insanity.

"Just look at them, Reid. Please. Look. Spencer, look," Morgan pleaded and curiosity getting the better of him, Reid turned his gaze down and to the photos the man held in front of him, gasping when he saw exactly what they depicted.

The dead bodies- the same exact dead bodies!- were imprisoned in the glossy sheet, a stilled moment of time. Leaves surrounded some, while semi-clear water, murky with clay, surrounded others. His hazel eyes darted between the photos, now laid out before him on his chest so he could see the pictures of all five of the corpses, and to the visions before him, which were slowly cracking. The bluish gray skin was getting dryer and dryer as if some unseen source was sucking all the water from their forms. His mouth fell open, his eyes unsure of whether they wanted to settle on the photos or the quickly dehydrating corpses.

"They were real, Spencer. You saw them before, that's why you're seeing them now. You're not sick, you're not making them up," Morgan said more firmly, his voice growing quieter now that he had garnered the patient's full attention.

He wasn't sick? That couldn't be true, Andrew had told him he was!

But here were photos, telling the exact opposite. He wasn't being haunted by a diseased mind, but by images that were burned into his brain and came out in a corporeal form. Had Andrew purposefully concealed the truth?

No! Andrew wouldn't lie to him!

But the photos...

He blinked, his mind overwhelmed with all the thoughts that ran through it. So instead, he turned to the now impossibly dry corpses, their bodies so chapped that they seemed to be made more from dust than anything human. He wanted to reach out and touch them- see if they fell at his hand like the one did at Morgan's. But before he could, more people rushed into the room, their harsh and loud footsteps shattering the illusion and causing the rest of the ghosts to became nothing more than a cloud of gray dust.

Swallowing, he looked to the photos and then behind Morgan, where Tori, Dr. Forte and a large, intimidating orderly stood, watching the scene with a dumbfounded look. Neither of them seemed ready to move forward and interrupt, so Reid took it as the opportunity to regain his composure- or what was left of it- and better examine the pictures.

He propped himself up on his hands, trying to push himself into a sitting position as Morgan hastily pulled the photos off his chest and held them, handing them back one by one when he was comfortably sitting against the pillow.

He grabbed the photos almost greedily, the possibility of being sane too good to pass up. If these photos were anything to account for, than maybe...maybe he was going to be okay. Maybe his mind had just been confused and messed some wires up. Maybe his hallucinations and delusions were just a fluke.

Thinking too much about it made his head hurt, the overlying contradictions and possibility of all truths complicating matters. So he decided to once more focus on only that which was right in front of him: the photos.

"They..." he started, too shocked for words. "How did you get these? How did you find them?" He looked up to Morgan, no longer caring how crazy he might've looked to the people still standing in the doorway. He needed answers, and if a hallucination was the only way he could get them, he didn't care how insane he appeared.

"These are the photos from the crime, Reid. These are his victims," Morgan said gently.

His eyebrows knitted. "Victims? Whose victims? And why am I seeing them?" he asked.

Morgan hesitated for a moment, licking his lips as he turned to Dr. Forte as if asking permission from something. When he finally looked back to Reid, he said, "These are people that...people that Andrew hurt."

Reid was shaking his head in the negative before he was even aware of it. "No," he said firmly, before adding, "Andrew wouldn't hurt anyone. Andrew was trying to help me."

Morgan sighed, rubbing his mouth and chin slowly. "Reid, he hurt these people. And he was trying to hurt you, too. But we saved you."

Reid turned to Morgan, his eyes burning and his jaw clenched tightly. "Andrew was _helping_ me! _You_ only made it worse!" he seethed.

Ignoring the flare up of pain he felt at seeing the hatred once more, Morgan persisted. "He made you sick, Reid. He made you think you were insane, but you're not. You _are_ an FBI agent. You _are _a genius. And I _am_ real." His voice was pleading, and for one brief, miraculous moment, Reid's lips parted slightly and he stared at him with a look of recognition. But all too soon it faded away and he snapped his lips shut, shaking his head.

"No," he said firmly, but his mind wasn't as confident as he sounded. Andrew wouldn't hurt him. Would he? Morgan wasn't real. He didn't know anything. But the pictures...

NO! If Morgan was an illusion, than so were the photos. Andrew wasn't a liar. Morgan was lying- could hallucinations even lie?

"Reid, please, think back to it," Morgan said. And before Reid could yell at him, tell him to shut up, he kept on talking. "You were on a rock, surrounded on most sides by water. You were reading notes, and then Andrew came. What happened then?"

Reid began to shake his head, ready to reach out and push Morgan away, when a new, yet oh so familiar memory crept into his brain, ceasing his movements and making him stare at his white bed sheet in confusion. "What did it smell like?" Morgan asked.

Before Reid could even truly contemplate the question, he answered. "Mountain air. Like...fresh, but humid, too. You could smell the water." Where had that come from? How did he know the details of a memory that couldn't be his? A memory that felt so distant, yet so real?

"What did it sound like?"

Again, Reid popped out an answer he didn't even knew he possessed.

"Running water and rustling leaves, from the wind."

"What do you see?"

At those words, it was like a picture painted itself in front of him, Reid being witness to every brushstroke, every blend of individual colors. He watched as he saw his own hands, his own index finger running down a page of tightly packed, neatly scribbled half-words. His bare toes flexed in the cold, running water- he could actually feel the creek lapping at his skin, chilling it to the bone yet feeling too nice alongside the bright sun to retract it. Suddenly, he pushed the notes aside, shifting slightly as he sunk his foot in deeper, barely noticing the chill as he thought, his mind contemplating what he had read.

But instead of focusing on his past thoughts, he answered Morgan's question, unaware that his eyes had closed as he tried to better the see the painted memory. "I'm on a rock. There were notes in front of me, but I moved them. I'm thinking and then..." he swallowed as the memory continued to play out before him. "Andrew came out and we spoke together."

Morgan moved closer, his throat running dry and his heartbeat resonated in his entire body, pulsing in his feet, his hands, his chest, his throat, his head...everywhere. He was hearing the firsthand account of Reid's capture, hearing it from the victim's mouth. He swallowed. Reid's mouth. He wasn't just a victim. He had a name. Though of course, he supposed they all did.

Licking his lips, he said, "And what happened after?"

Did he really want to hear this? Did he really want to know what had happened, what Andrew did to cause that large pile of blood, to take Reid away? Too late now. He couldn't take the question back and Reid continued to answer them, too enthralled by the new memory to actually realize that he was speaking.

"He...he said something. I realized he was the UnSub." The UnSub? How did he know that word? What did it even mean? Was it an acronym? A shortened phrase? "We talked back and forth and I tried to get away. I hit my leg on the rock below the one I sitting on. It hurt. A lot." He winced with the now remembered pain, instinctively curling his right leg inward. "I fell in the water and nearly drowned, but he pulled me up. Then he took a needle..." He trailed off here, squeezing his eyes even tighter together as the vision become fuzzier, less clear. Was this a fabricated memory that was no longer being entertained by his mind? Or was this a real memory, and he legitimately could not remember what came next?

But as he watched this Andrew- whether constructed or genuine- punch a hook to his head, grab him by his hair to pull him from the water, inject him with some mysterious substance that made him sluggish, he felt a sharp pain in his head and a dull ache in his chest. No, Andrew wouldn't do this. Andrew wouldn't hurt him. He was helping him!

Collecting his thoughts, Reid grabbed the photographs and threw them across the room, flopping onto his side and turning away from Morgan and the three people still hovering in the doorway.

"Reid," he heard Morgan say softly.

"You're lying," he responded, hating the way his voice shook. "Andrew wouldn't do that."

There was a long pause. Finally, Morgan whispered, "I didn't say anything. I just asked you questions. You were the one who said everything."

Reid wanted to turn around and yell at him, call him a liar more and more, tell him to leave him alone like the other visions of his teammates. But he couldn't. He knew he was right- if anything lied to him, it was his own, traitorous mind. But when did it lie? Was Morgan telling the truth and the lies began when Andrew...when Andrew broke him, or was it lying now, trying to turn him against Andrew? He licked his lips, subconsciously biting into it as his shoulders shook, just now realizing he was crying.

He felt so confused! So hurt! Who was being truthful and who wasn't? Which reality was the right reality- the one where he was an FBI agent, or the one where he was a disturbed mental patient? He didn't know- had no idea of which was more likely than the other- and he hated it.

Maybe if he were in the righter mind, he would think this situation funny. Spencer Reid, resident Genius, Knowledge of Everything, Fact-Seeker and Statistician, didn't even know who he was. It was laughable. At any other time, of course.

At this time, though, he was confused. He was angry. He was sad. He was betrayed. He was...humiliated. If he was an FBI agent and let Andrew get the better of him, then he had let an...what did he call it? An UnSub? He had let an UnSub break him. He had been weak enough to crack. Perhaps it was a trivial thing to concern himself with- the feelings of embarrassment at having called his friends fake. But he couldn't stop it. He felt so stupid, so ridiculous.

It was easier to believe he really was a patient.

He was never an FBI agent.

Never a profiler.

Never a genius.

But even as he said to Morgan, over his shoulder, "Just leave me alone," he couldn't help the ever-growing feelings of doubt. There were two realities he had now had to choose from: which was the one he truly belonged to?

He had never been so unsure.

xXx

"Agent Morgan, your photos," Dr. Forte whispered, straightening herself as she shuffled the pictures into a pile and handed them to the man, biting her lip as she looked at Reid. His shoulders were shaking though he was clearly trying to still them, not wanting to let anyone know that he was crying. Even when he was so far from his old self, he seemed to still hold strong to his stubbornness.

"Should we still sedate him?" the orderly, a burly, red-headed man named Robert Berger, asked, his voice low so as to not disturb Reid.

She eyed him for a moment before slowly shaking her head. "No. Monitor him, though. I want him on CC immediately until further notice, but no sedation," she said, then turning her blue eyes to Morgan and explaining, "CC, it means Constant Care. We will have an orderly stand watch outside his door at all times. His bed will have to moved to the other wall though, so the orderly will have to sit at his desk for tonight."

Robert nodded then, walking over to the chair, left in the middle of the room in between the desk and bed, and sitting himself down. "I'll take the first watch. Tori, would ya mind gettin' me ma book, Sugar?" he drawled in a low voice, still being conscious of Reid. Tori nodded and left, sending a lingering look to Morgan as Dr. Forte motioned for him to follow her out the door.

He swallowed nervously as he walked with her to her office, each step sending jolts through his body. Every part of him was trembling- not only from seeing Reid hallucinate so badly, but from what he saw in his eyes. For just a moment, a wonderful, fleeting moment, he saw the old Reid resurface. During the cognitive interview, he saw recognition in his eyes, saw the look of a focused, fully-there Reid. And then he closed his eyes. And he heard it! He heard what happened! Forensics of course had been able to construe an extremely accurate portrayal of what had occurred at the time of Reid's abduction. But hearing it come from Reid, hearing the words of his struggle for life from his own mouth...

It sent more shivers down his spine than any horror movie or well-told ghost story could have.

They entered Dr. Forte's office, and Morgan took the seat he had been sitting in until he had heard the scream. Sitting down had made him fully aware of the jitters that shivered through his legs, and in the time it took for the doctor to sit herself down, he rearranged his seating position five times.

The first thing she said was a question that he had asked himself many times before.

"Why are you carrying those photos around with you?"

And like all the times he asked himself, he gave her the same answer.

"They remind me that even if we couldn't save Reid in time, we at least got to him before the worst could happen. Before he became like all the others," he answered, suddenly realizing just how obsessed that sounded- just how bizarre he might have appeared. Feeling the need to fully explain himself, he added, "I feel guilty, about what happened. I let him go, you know. I let him leave by himself, and then he was captured." He hesitated, staring down at the ground at his confession. How could he have let him go on his own? How did he let this happen? "Being able to see the pictures, of what Reid could have been, reminds me that we did...something for him."

Dr. Forte nodded, looking at him over the glasses she had recently placed on. Slowly, and in a clipped tone, she said, "And you showed them to him. Why?"

Morgan sighed, biting on his lip as he looked up at her, shrugging his shoulders. "I thought that if he knew that what he was seeing was real, that there was a reason for it, he would be able to better understand it," he explained, knowing he sounded pathetic. He thought it had helped. And it looked like it did, if only for those brief few seconds.

Sighing, the doctor folded her arms on her desk and leaned forward, smiling as she said, "I think it helped him."

His head shot up. "You do?"

"Yes, I do. I think it also made it less scary for him." She shook her head and looked off to the side, as though in deep thought. "He's different from most people who hallucinate. While everyone else believe what they see and hear are real, Reid knows they aren't. And I think that frightens him, because he knows to just what extent his illness is. But I believe seeing those photos made him feel less sick. Like he wasn't totally insane. And now he has a more certain idea of who the corpses are."

Morgan couldn't resist his smile. He had helped! In some small way, he had aided Reid.

"I think," Dr. Forte began, smiling softly as she continued. "That so long as you're careful about what you say and do, you could visit Reid."

"Are you serious?" he asked, his eyes wide and his smile growing larger, practically falling off the edge of his seat. He could come and see Reid? They would actually let him speak to him, have conversations, be there with him?

She nodded. But before Morgan could truly begin to celebrate, she added, "Provided, of course, that you begin to slowly help him more forward."

He nodded eagerly. "Anything I could do, I'd do it," he said.

She smirked. "Well, first, I think he needs to learn more about these other victims."

"What do you want me to tell him?"

"Give him names and ages. Bios. Photos of what they looked like before Andrew got to them. Maybe if he can humanize the hallucinations, they'll be less frightening and he can work through them. Can you get all that information, even though you've been suspended?"

Now it was Morgan's turn to smirk.

"_I _can't, but I know someone who can."

xXx

"Talk to me my Chocolate Milkshake God," Garcia answered, smirking when she saw the name flash on her cell phone, indicating Morgan's call. Despite being on suspension and renting a flat in Pennsylvania, Morgan still made an effort to update the team with any news he could get about Reid. While the news wasn't always good and often revealed very little, she still looked forward to hearing his updates, knowing that at least Reid had someone there with him.

"I need you to find some information for me, Baby Girl," Morgan said and she pushed her chair away from her half-touched meal and over to her computer, sitting straight.

"Your wish is my command," she said with a playful smile. She always enjoyed their flirtatious banter. "What do you need me to find, Hot Stuff?"

There was a moment of hesitation before he said, "I need you to get into the FBI archives and find the stuff about Andrew's other victims."

Her jaw dropped. Why was he requesting this? Wasn't there the unspoken agreement that said they would never talk about that case again? Didn't they all decide it was worth pushing into the past and locking away, if at least for the time being? Why was he trying to dredge up the nightmare everyone was trying to work past?

As if sensing her confusion over the phone, he explained to her what had occurred while Reid was hallucinating, and what the stipulations of his visit were. Once he had finished, Garcia was grinning a literal ear-to-ear smile, looking very much like a blonde Cheshire Cat.

"So, you want me to hack into sealed information that you can't have, being an Inactive Agent?" she asked, trying her best to sound like a disappointed and chiding mother. But her joy over the situation made that difficult- Reid, their Reid, had come out! He was getting closer to coming back to them!

Morgan chuckled. "Pretty much."

She smirked. "Naughty, naughty boy," she said as she began the process to find the records. Once they were all pulled up, she leaned back and asked, "How do you want me to get them to you?"

"Send it to Dr. Forte's fax. I've got the number right here, somewhere..." he trailed off, as though distracted by his search. And while he looked for the number, Garcia took the time to look at the last file in the folder, the file belonging to Dr. Spencer Reid, the only victim to get away.

xXx

Reid woke up, not because he was no longer tired, but because he felt eyes on him- eyes that made him decidedly uncomfortable. He was still lying on his side, the side he had flopped onto to hide his tears after Morgan showed him the pictures that sent his mind into a confused setting between both worlds. But somewhere along the lines, he had fallen asleep and woken to a new morning and the burning feeling of eyes on his back.

Blinking blearily, the sun making his puffy, encrusted eyes even more irritated, he slowly propped himself up, looking around the room to see not one, but two sets of eyes surrounding him. An orderly, part of the morning staff that he recognized to be a man named James, sat at his desk, reading something on his phone as Morgan sat in a cushioned chair beside his bed, his nose buried in a book.

Reid sighed as he glared at the illusion. Didn't he get that he just wanted to be alone?

Spitting out the words as though they were poison on his lips, Reid said, "What are you doing here?"

Morgan looked up, smiling slightly as he closed his book and folded his legs. "I've got seven more months of suspension. I have nothing better to do," he said, and Reid felt his annoyance strengthen at the amused tone in the man's voice.

Reid opened his mouth to retort, but stopped when Morgan stood and dropped a large pile of paper onto his lap, each covered in pictures and printed words. Slowly, he looked down to the first paper on the pile, frowning when he saw the familiar, dead faces that often tormented him. They were thumbnail versions of the photographs Morgan had shown him last night- the photos that had made the ghosts crack and turn to dust.

"What is this?" he asked, his anger quickly dissipating and being replaced by puzzlement.

Morgan was closer now, his chair so close to the bed he was practically on the mattress as he answered, "They're the victim's files. The hallucinations you see, these contain the information about them before Andrew killed them."

Reid shook his head at the final statement. "Andrew wouldn't kill anyone," he whispered.

Morgan continued, as though he didn't hear him. "You can read them, if you want. Keep them. They're all yours," he said, falling back into his chair as Reid stared at the documents uneasily, unsure of whether or not he really wanted to look. Part of him was screaming to read it, intake the information as though it were oxygen and validate the lingering feeling that maybe, just maybe, he actually was an FBI agent. But another part of him- the part that almost obsessively held onto Andrew- was screaming for the opposite, begging him to throw the papers down on the floor like he had the previous night. Begged for him to dispose of the evidence and return once more to Andrew's defense.

He was so confused! He didn't know which to do, which part of him to obey! So he just sat there, the pile of paper sitting on his lap and weighing him down, his mind arguing with itself.

He wasn't sure how long he sat there like that, but eventually, Morgan said he had to go do something and would be back later, saying a goodbye that Reid didn't return. But James did, which piqued his interests. James saw him?

Looking up at the orderly, he chewed on his lower lip. If he saw him, did that make Morgan real? While he thought it were possible that neither of the men were real and they were both hallucinations, he came across a new, recently discovered theory. The photographs had planted the first few seeds of doubt in his mind, so now, instead of assuming the first idea that both men could converse because neither were actually there, he began to wonder if perhaps Morgan _was_ real.

The battling ensued once more.

FBI Agent?

Mental Patient?

Sane?

Insane?

Real?

Hallucinations?

And more importantly-

Look?

Don't look?

It was nearly thirty minutes later when he finally removed the first sheet of paper and began reading about some unknown man named Angelo King.

xXx

**Author's Note:** **This chapter definitely changed from the original planning. Damn plot bunnies, running away all crazy like that. But anyway, ONE MORE CHAPTER TO GO! WooHoo! **

**IMPORTANT: I have several stories I need to do that are part of competitions (Harry Potter competitions are fun to get the juices going) So I won't start working on the sequel(s?) until once they are all completed, which should be rather soon. So by the start of September, the first sequel (if two) will start being uploaded and worked on. More information about that on the next- the FINAL- chapter though. Haha, can you tell I'm excited?**

**Anyway, thanks everyone for all your reviews, favorites, and alerts. Updates made possible by people like you. Let me know your thoughts and whatnot on this chapter- I'm very nervous about it so I'd love to hear your suggestions and opinions.**

**Also, there won't be a preview for the upcoming chapter. As much of a tradition as it has become, I feel it will take away some of the mystery. So sorry, but the chapter should be posted soon! (I slowly began working on it when I first started writing this, so it's more than halfway done.)**


	25. Chapter 25

**Disclaimer:****Criminal Minds and all its associated characters are property to CBS and no profit is being made from this story.**

**IMPORTANT:**** After reviewing the EXTREMELY excessive word count (roughly 20,000 words. That's a novella on its own...) for the final chapter, I decided to break it into smaller chapters so that you guys can breathe every couple thousand words or so. I'm done making promises about how many chapters there are, because the plot bunnies like to screw with me whenever I do that. So yeah, just know it's almost over, haha.**

**Chapter Twenty-Five: Photographic Memory Part. 2**

_'...At least I try, but I'm relying on my photographic memory while painfully realizing it's not all it's cracked up to be. And falling's just another way to fly- I wonder why it's never easier than the first time.' -Emilie Autumn, Photographic Memory_

It was four hours later when Reid finally put the mound of paper to the side of his bed, lying half on his back and half on his side as his hand remained on the first page- the page of all the thumbnail photographs. While he had finished reading it all after a very meager amount of time, he had gone back and reread it again. And again. And again. He had ingested the information as far as he could, read it all until his mind was so sick of seeing the same sentences and words over and over that he could no longer focus.

But even now, his brain sighing at the mental reprieve, he still ran through the words once more, all of it memorized. Yet, his mind could only hone in on one file, on only one of the victim's archived records: the file belonging to Spencer Reid.

When he had first read the name, his own name, he had felt a shiver run down his spine at the possibility of having someone else walking around with the same exact name. It felt wrong, impersonal. Names were how someone identified you, who you were. So if he shared a name with someone, did that diminish his person, his effect on the world and all he was?

Then he turned the page, revealing the in depth victim file- and a picture of himself. Or rather, a healthier version of himself. Though he wasn't entirely sure of what he looked like before he became insane, he had an idea that the photo attached was quite an accurate description. New haircut aside, he was skinner, his face leaner than the picture told. His eyes were somehow less bright, murkier as if someone had dropped a small amount of ink into the greenish-gold irises. Just enough ink that it was able to spread out in velvety black ribbons and dilute itself, yet still darkening the color of his eyes forever. Perceived or imagined, his eyes were most certainly more lack luster now.

Not to mention of course that the picture had him wearing a button up shirt with the first two buttons undone- possibly because of heat. And the small sliver of skin that could be seen of his chest revealed smooth, unblemished surfaces of alabaster complexion- not a scar in sight. Had he been wearing the shirt now, in the same fashion, it would show the beginning clump of white scar tissue that indicated what was a bullet wound.

And Reid safely assumed that even though only the absence of the bullet wound was visible, the picture was taken before he garnered any of the many scars he had.

Shooting a nervous look up to the orderly sitting outside the threshold- his bed now repositioned against the wall adjacent to the door- he kicked the green and blue quilt off of his form and sat up, staring down at his legs. They were currently concealed from view by gray sweatpants, which didn't end until his socks- a festive selection of black with orange stripes and red with green stripes- wrapped around his feet. He had always been curious about the scars he couldn't remember receiving, and after having read a supposed documentation of his life- he still doubted Morgan's credibility- his curiosity had done anything but subside.

_Large gash wounds, from serrated blade, found on left thigh while more superficial cuts ran up and down his calves. An extremely deep stab wound- from same style of blade- was found on his right thigh. Burn marks cover the soles of his feet, though superficial cuts are visible, suggesting that Andrew Wright had attempted to cauterize them._

The report ran through his head as he swallowed, glancing to the orderly one final time before grabbing the waistband of his pants and slowly sliding them down, raising his hip as he wiggled them down further, his dark green boxer briefs being his only shield of modesty now. The fabric was pulled down agonizingly slow, as Reid continuously looked to the doorway, but when it sat in a bunched pile at his ankles, he let his eyes linger on the scars he had always questioned.

His legs were long, yet extremely skinny, and his knobby knees protruded almost awkwardly outward from the middle of his extremities. But his attention wasn't on his twiggy legs or bulbous joints. No, his attention was fully settled onto the long scars.

White mounds of pulled together skin ran from his knobby knee to his hip, disappearing under the hem of his underwear. The scar was about half an inch in diameter, with the exception of two points along the cut, where it was nearly three times that, rays of thinner white scars surrounding it like a grotesque sun. His hand raised itself- almost of its own accord, and an index finger began tracing the line, stopping at the extra large section of healing cell tissue.

The area was less sensitive, but he cringed at the feeling nonetheless, a slight tingle burning on the back of his knee. He was about to continue his journey- about to let his finger trail down more until it reached the shallower scar lines down his shin- when another new memory unfurled in his mind, nearly pushing him down on the mattress with the shock of it.

_He was tied down to a bed, his wrists clasped tightly in metal restraints that clanked against the metal railings. His teeth were digging into his lip, toes curling as he tried to escape an inescapable situation. And above him, holding a corkscrew like device to an already bleeding slit, was Andrew._

His eyes opened immediately, and he was sitting up, his fingers clenching the sheets as his own screams of remembered pain echoed in his ears. The orderly was at his side in an instant, waving hands in front of his face, confused as to what had set the young man off. But Reid didn't see the blur of fingers pass in front of his vision, his mind was still reeling with memories, eyelids squeezed together shut and acting like a canvas sheet for a movie projection.

A vice grip on the sheets so tight his knuckles were several shades paler than the rest of him and nausea grew in his stomach, his knees drawn up and inward and as he subconsciously began rocking himself...

The orderly, unsure of how to respond, started screaming for nurses, the noise of his voice sounding far away and muffled as Reid focused on other voices, ones coming from inside his own head.

_He was tied down to the mattress once more, groggy as though the combined effects of a drug and sleep were wearing off at the same time. He heard voices and, curious as to whom the two people could be, moved his head slightly on the pillow to uncover both his eyes, the voices now sounding clearer and more distinct. One was most definitely Andrew, but the other was more foreign, though Reid still recognized it from somewhere..._

_'Here, put this over his eyes first,' Andrew said to the second man._

_'Why? It's not like it will matter...' the man responded._

_'Just do it.' Andrew again._

_A sigh. Then, 'Fine, fine.'_

_Just then, someone grabbed onto his hair and pulled his head up harshly, causing him to whimper. A blindfold was placed over his eyes._

The memory faded as a new one played in his mind, the film strips being set in place for the macabre movie performance he couldn't help but watch.

_He was standing in a small, one person shower stall, beads of water rolling down his skin and carrying grime and blood with it, a disgusting display as diluted reds and diluted browns of water slid off him and to the tiled floor. He was filthy, and the warm water, despite the slight stung it had on his cut up body, felt so delightful to his aching bones._

_The washcloth in his hand, he began to wash himself, slowly and lightly at first, and then gradually scrubbing harder, the sensation of tiny bugs crawling all over him increasing. But when the scruffiness of the small washcloth was no longer effective in rubbing into his skin, he let it fall to the ground, using his own fingernails instead._

_His arms burned as layers of skin were peeled away, raw and red as beads of blood bubbled through the scratches. But he didn't care- or didn't even notice- as he tried to get rid of the disgusting feeling of bugs that covered him._

_His broken leg making him unsteady, he let his body slide down to the floor of the shower, the steam almost suffocating at this lower setting. But he continued to scratch and peel away skin, the burn of the water making his arms even redder and more sensitive._

_He hadn't even been aware of the fact that he was grunting, gasping with the effort, until the shower curtain was opened and Andrew looked down at him, his eyes wide. He must've looked pathetic, curled up on the floor, naked, his hair clinging to his face in wet segments as he continued to dig into his arms, searching for those damn bugs that eluded him._

"_Spencer?" Andrew asked._

_He shook his head. "Don't," he said, his voice quiet and for a moment, he wondered if Andrew could even hear him over the pounding sound of the shower before deciding it didn't matter. "Just leave me alone," he said again, swallowing hard. Andrew regarded him with a look of concern before reaching down to grab Reid's arm, pulling him up despite the way he struggled._

"Spencer? Spencer!"

He was wretched violently away from the memory by Morgan, the man's face only inches from his as he blinked his eyes in confusion, surprised to find that he had started to cry. But the shock did not last long as he began to feel the familiar burn of human touch. In Morgan's attempt to reach out the dazed man, he had grabbed onto his shoulders. And now that Reid was aware once more, the feeling of hands on him made his stomach flop and his adrenaline pump.

"Don't touch me!" he roared, flailing his arms out and pushing Morgan away before curling back into himself, his knees pressed tightly into his chest with his arms wrapped around them. Morgan stood back, alarmed at the sudden assault as the orderly returned, Dr. Forte in tow.

She looked over to the patient, her expression softening. "Spencer," she said slowly, waiting for him to look up at her. When several minutes past and he had yet to remove his glare from the sheets, she said, "What happened? Why did you start screaming?"

He said nothing, and for a moment, she thought he hadn't heard the question. But slowly, he tore his gaze away from the sheets and looked up to Morgan, his mouth open slightly as indistinguishable emotions swam through his eyes. Fear, hate, worry, guilt, embarrassment, sorrow...so many it became impossible to tell one from the other. But when he spoke, his tone was soft and tinged more with confusion than anything else.

"The memories..." he started, swallowing through the hard lump of tears in his throat. "Are they...are they...real?" Wincing at the end of his question, he suddenly realized that he wasn't sure what he wanted the answer to be. If the memories were fake, then that could mean his psychoses was getting worse and the probability of him getting healthy became slim. But if they were real...

What if they were? What if he had gone through a hell, such as the one his own mind depicted? What if it got worse? His memories were incomplete and seemed to trail off with him feeling a sense of impeding dread, the most traumatic incidences still locked away in some proverbial closet, lying in wait. So what if he recalled it all- provided they were real accounts- and realized he was better off insane? Could it have been so bad that he actually desired the thing he had tried the most to get away from?

Morgan licked his lips. "It depends...what happened in them?" he asked, moving closer to the side of Reid's bed.

Reid paused for a moment, thinking back to the rush and overflow of thoughts that he had succumbed to only seconds before. Summing it up into one sentence, he said, in a quiet, hushed voice, "Andrew, hurting me."

Morgan was silent for a long time before he eventually nodded his head and answered, "Yes, they are real. I'm sorry, Spencer."

Reid shook his head, his mind searching for an excuse- anything- to prove that he hadn't lived through that hell, that Andrew wasn't evil. "But...I...I hallucinate. Andrew wasn't lying, I really am insane."

Now it was Dr. Forte who stepped in, her soft voice tearing Reid's desperate eyes away from Morgan. "You hallucinate because Andrew tortured you. He made your mind think it was safer to assume your team was a delusion and the stress of the situation caused a minor psychotic fracture." She paused, biting her lip before saying, "The hallucinations were a side effect of the break. Andrew wasn't ever helping you, Spencer. I'm sorry, I know how much you cared about him."

Morgan was real.

And he was right.

Dr. Forte was agreeing with him.

Andrew had hurt him.

He had always hurt him.

Reid let his legs slide further down the mattress, his bare knees still up though no longer digging into his chest. He felt so...so _stupid_. So ridiculous, so embarrassed. He had been played. He was played like a fool! A psychotic serial killer had gotten the best of him, tricked him! How did he let that happen?

He was shaking, though no tears fell from his eyes. He wanted Morgan to leave, wanted the man he could no long face to get out of his sight. He knew Morgan would never look down on him and that he would say everything he could to make Reid feel better. But right now, the only thing that would make Reid feel better would be for him to leave him alone, his condescending eye away. How could he look at Morgan, knowing all he said to him- to all of his team- and after all he let happen to him? After he let Andrew break him that way?

"Reid, you okay?" Morgan asked.

Reid could only mutter, "I feel so stupid..."

Morgan furrowed his brow. "Don't feel that way, man," he said.

"It's not your fault, Reid. The self-preservation mechanism you have in your psyche had associated pain with sanity and had, in an attempt to keep you from more harm, made you believe Andrew. The stress of the situation resulted in the hallucinations as you know, and now it's just a matter of your post-traumatic amygdala and some psychogenic amnesia," Dr. Forte said, and Reid resisted the urge to glare at her. Is that what he sounded like all the time? Spewing out facts like it was carbon dioxide exiting his lungs? It sounded almost callous, the way she thought his emotions could be so easily assuaged just by handing out some scientific explanation.

It made no difference, whether or not it was his mind's instinctual need for survival that he let Andrew trick him.

He still felt like an idiot.

"Reid, is there anything I can get for you?" Morgan asked, unnerved by the way Reid sat, slumped over, quiet, unmoving. He was beginning to feel like he had made a mistake, like Reid was better off being insane. He might've been hallucinating, but at least he seemed content. But this...he was..._broken_. There was no other word for it.

Spencer Reid was utterly defeated, the reality of his life and the week he had lived through now being discovered.

"Just..." Reid started, his voice squeaking as tried not to let the tears be heard. "Just leave me alone." He jumped up suddenly, kicking his sweatpants fully off from around his ankles and grabbing them as he stepped off the bed and headed for the bathroom, saying in a low voice mostly to himself than to Morgan and Dr. Forte, "I need to shower."

"Spencer, are you sure you're okay to shower?" Dr. Forte asked. But Reid didn't answer, he just opened the door and slipped inside, closing it with a click.

Dr. Forte sighed as she turned to Morgan, rubbing her eyes tiredly.

"Will...will he be okay?" Morgan asked, his stomach feeling heavy as though it were made of lead instead of cells. Was it his fault Reid was the way he was? _'Of course it's your fault! He was fine before you went and showed him the photos!'_ his mind yelled at him, and he cringed at his own thoughts. He hadn't meant to upset him, he just wanted him to be healthy, to be sane. And now he was.

And he wasn't happy.

"We were prepared for this to happen," Dr. Forte said with a shrug. At Morgan's questioning glance, she then expanded on her words. "We knew the psychoses was only temporary, as well as the amnesia. He's had a bed waiting for him up in our Trauma Ward since we first heard of his case." She looked at him, her blue eyes looking more haunted than ever. "It wasn't bringing him to sanity we were worried about, it was helping him deal with the trauma. He went through a lot, Agent Morgan. The effects will be long lasting and we never expected his road to recovery to be easy."

Morgan swallowed as he asked the question that seared into his brain and felt like acid as he voiced it. "Would it...would it have been better if I never showed him the pictures?"

Dr. Forte shook her head quickly. "No, no! Perhaps I should have warned you of this, and I'm sorry I didn't. The fact of the matter is that this would have happened regardless- the pictures just sped it up." At Morgan's look of guilt, she quickly added, "Which is better! The sooner we could get him sane, the sooner we can get him healthy and- eventually- happy."

Happy.

Morgan nearly snorted at the word. How could anyone be happy after that? Would Reid even be capable of feeling happiness now, going to Hell and back? It seemed like such a far off destination- something that everyone yearned for but never really attained. But if anyone could do it, it would be Reid. At least, that was what Morgan hoped.

"I'm going to go call the Trauma Ward, let them know that Spencer will be joining them soon. His medications will need to be altered now, but the ward psychiatrist up there will be better fit for that job," Dr. Forte said as she left the room, an orderly returning to the post as Morgan sat himself down on Reid's bed, leaning forward as he rubbed his hands over his bald head.

For the first time, he wished he was suspended for longer than a year so that he could stay with Reid for as long as the man needed him.

xXx

Spencer Reid was back.

At least, as back as he could.

While he was sane once more and fully aware of which reality was his own, it couldn't really be said that his personality had returned to him, unaltered. In fact, it seemed like the only thing about his personality that seemed unchanged were the negatives, much to Morgan chagrin. Of course, he expected Reid to be different, to be jumpier and hollower than before. But at the same time, he at least expected to Reid to go back to his know-it-all, fact dispensing ways. So when Reid came back from his shower, silent and unfocused, he had felt guilt consume him once more. But when he said various inaccurate facts with the intent of starting a conversation- or a conversation by Reid's standards- and the man just shrugged his shoulders and continued to ignore him, he felt confused.

No, he felt scared.

Reid was the type of person to resort to solid facts when everything else around him was unstable. The more disastrous a situation was, the more likely Reid was to start quoting long-read books and little known facts. So when the man refused to take Morgan's bait and neglected to correct his obviously distorted information, he knew that something was wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong.

But what Morgan didn't know, was that Reid was very much Reid inside his own head.

When Morgan absentmindedly said, "Don't feet have the least amount of bones in your body?" Reid thought to himself, _'Actually, the bones in your feet make up twenty-five percent of all the bones in your body.'_

When Morgan examined a birthmark on his shoulder and said, "I hate birthmarks. People act like it's a weird thing to have and I hate explaining them," Reid's mind said, _'Actually, it's a very common thing to have. In fact, eighty percent of all babies are born with birthmarks and there are several distinct types, though the most common ones fade over time.'_

The problem was that Reid was too focused on other matters to entertain Morgan's sad attempt of starting a conversation, and he had hoped that eventually Morgan would just give up and fall quiet when he didn't respond.

To an outside viewer, Reid might have appeared to be more apathetic than anything, bored even. But he was far from it- the issue was that he was feeling so many different things that he didn't know which to feel at any specific moment in time. This was the center of his mind and the true problem that made him unable to speak to Morgan.

Emotions would take a stranglehold on him, suffocating him with some unidentifiable feeling before he was taken over by another, drastically different feeling. And so, his face remained an impassive structure, his lips a straight line, his eyes looking at the world in a seemingly bored manner, his movements slow and lethargic, when in reality his entire world was crashing down from the overwhelming surge of different emotions.

He didn't know where one ended, and another began!

But in typical Reid fashion, he turned the storm of feelings into a form he could understand.

His body was in sensory overdrive, his brain unable to settle on one particular emotion, and at the current moment, he was metaphorically organizing and categorizing the jumble of feelings he felt. They were being picked apart and set aside, and in the very analytical style that Reid had made his own, he focused on only one emotion at a time. He would select one emotion from the alphabetized filing cabinet, close it with that one folder in hand, and then open it, addressing the contained feeling before moving on to the next.

And like slipping into a pair of his favorite, most comfortable pair of pants, he returned to his old self as much as possible.

_'Robert Plutchik's Wheel of Emotion,'_ he thought to himself, trying to find the names for all the files he was storing away. _'Eight basic emotions and eight advanced emotion, in alphabetical order,'_ his mind said to him slowly, his eyes fluttering to the top of his head as he thought of what would be the first emotion, according to Plutchik, that he would focus on. After a second of thought, his mind answered with, '_Aggression, advanced emotion that is a combination of anger and anticipation.'_

And just like that, one of the many emotions that was involved in the internal war was suddenly christened and identified. With a game plan decided, he began to work through the aspects of this particular feeling, knowing that he still had a hefty plate of many other emotions to deal with. But for now, they were all safely tucked away in the proverbial filing cabinet, ready for future examination.

xXx

Morgan sighed as he hung up the phone, leaning back in his chair and resting his head against the brick wall. It had been a week since Reid's "improvement" had been been made, and he decided that it was about time that he called the rest of his team, informing them on the latest update. Garcia had been ecstatic of course, breaking into tears at the news. And that was when Morgan chickened out.

How could he listen to her cries of happiness, her overjoyed proclamations of "I knew he would do it! He's so strong! I knew he would get better!" just to tell her that, in all actuality, he got worse. Sure, his hallucinations were significantly less appalling now, and extremely few and far between now that his conscious mind no longer fed into the notion, but behavior wise, he had regressed. He had barely spoken to anyone, uttering on average five words a day. He barely ate. He barely moved. All in all, he was depressed.

_'Well what exactly did you think would happen? That he'd just look at you and say, "wow! What a weird experience!" and move on with his life?' _a voice in his mind sneered and he sighed, knowing that a foolish part of him had hoped that that would be the aftermath of this ordeal. But no, Reid was most certainly going to need more than just a nudge in the right direction- metaphorically of course, as he was more sensitive to touch than ever now.

Which brought Morgan to another question: Was Reid's memory fully restored yet, or was it still working through the gaping holes, much like an unfinished puzzle that was missing many pieces? Even though Reid had not confided in Morgan, or anyone, for that matter, he was almost positive that the young genius had yet to recall certain..._incidences_ that occurred while in Andrew's care. He shivered in contempt with himself when he realized just how casually he had referred to Varney raping Reid.

It was not an _incident_. How dare he even think otherwise?

_'Well, Mr. Profiler, if even you're too unwilling to admit what really happened, what makes you think Reid is?'_ that same voice from before thought to him and Morgan decided he was sick of his own thoughts.

He stood, rubbing his chin as he looked around the outside setting of the mental hospital, crunchy piles of leaves littering the dying grass. Fall was fast approaching, and the gentle breeze provided a nice and well-needed break from Summer's sweltering heat. But the thing about Autumn that Morgan was painfully reminded of in that moment was that it was the season where everything just..._died_. What else would die? What else would walk hand-in-hand with the flowers, the green hue of nature, and the movement of animals as Winter once more fastened it's icy grip around the hemisphere? And more importantly, what would be reawakened come Spring time?

Sighing, Morgan began his routine walk around the grounds, his hands shoved in his fleece sweater as he thought over his conversation with Garcia. She had ended it, hastily saying something about telling the rest of the team and planning a visit. Like Dr. Ostheim, Dr. Forte had steadfastly denied visitation rights. But now that their presence would no longer upset Reid, the privilege was handed out to them.

_'Before, the team's presence would upset Reid. And now, the team's presence would upset the team. How poetic,'_ he bitterly thought, knowing that, to the team miles and miles away, the news of Reid's recovery would overlook the inevitable. As talented as they all were at human psychology, their vices lay in the criminal mind, not so much in the victim. So when Garcia came rushing in to the Bullpen, saying that Reid was sane again, they would, like Morgan, forget that Reid was by no means okay. And they would come out to Pennsylvania, expecting a heart-warming reunion, only to remember that Reid was still a victim. That there would be no hugs, no kisses, no happy rejoices. Because they would all be smacked in the face with the reality that Reid wasn't really Reid anymore.

And how could Morgan tell them that? How could he voluntarily destroy what bliss they could gather? No, he couldn't do that to them.

His phone vibrated, once and quickly, indicating a text. He pulled the device out of his pocket, flipping open the screen to read Garcia's message.

_Told the team! We're all going to come visit two weekends from now! Uber excited!_

"Don't get too excited, Baby Girl," he mumbled to himself, shoving his phone back in his pocket as he vowed to deal with this specific situation later, when he was alone in the comfort of his small flat. He couldn't focus on telling her the truth at the moment- besides, they deserved to celebrate, if only for a few hours.

xXx

Reid sat in his bed, Indian style, as he shifted the weight of the Rubik's cube in his hand. Tori really did have a sick sense of humor sometimes. Really, the fact that the nurse went out of her way to buy him an object he repeatedly told her he hated and then tell him that he could sit and twiddle his thumbs for all she cared, was really very spiteful. But like always, he couldn't say no to her. So he took the Rubik's cube, unwilling to start it as he knew that it would take only seconds before he finished it. Might as well build up anticipation for the damn thing.

"Are you actually going to do it or just stare at it?" Morgan asked bemusedly, and as per usual, Reid ignored him. It wasn't necessarily that Reid was trying to be rude, it was just that facing and conversing with his long-time friend would remind him of just how stupidly he acted. Sure, he could think of a million and one reasons why it was psychologically a coping mechanism, but as he had recently learned, facts and statistics were a lot less comforting when they were applied directly to you. And even though he wanted to talk to him, wanted to have Morgan reassure him the way he always did, even the thought of looking up at him sent waves of humiliation through his veins that made his face turn an astonishingly bright shade of scarlet and his mind taunt him. No, he was better off ignoring him.

"Do you want me to pick up any books for you?" Morgan asked.

Ooh, that one was tempting. But no, Reid couldn't face him. Besides, he knew it was just yet another attempt to get his attention.

Unfazed, Morgan tried again. "What about food? I've had the stuff they serve here, and I can't imagine eating it all the time. I can probably pick up some pizza for tonight and then swing by the grocery store and get food for you to have for other meals. How does that sound?"

He would have received a more lively response from a mouse. Sighing in frustration, Morgan pulled the last trick out of his sleeve. "The team's going to visit you in about two weeks."

That worked. Reid nearly jumped from his sitting position, the Rubik's cube slipping from his hand and falling into his lap as he turned to face the man, his lips parting slightly. Really? His team was coming to visit him? His stomach was doing loop-the-loops at the idea as his mind was torn between two distinct emotions: fear and excitement.

While seeing his friends and pseudo-family for the first time made him feel happy and loved, he couldn't help the intense return of his embarrassment resurface once more. Having Morgan sit beside him was bad enough! He couldn't imagine the absolute humiliation he would feel if the entire team was there.

Morgan must've noticed the way his face fell, as he furrowed his brow and asked, "What's wrong? Don't you want to see everyone?"

Reid bit his lip. He had made it quite a point to not speak much to anyone, especially his colleague. But being well learned in psychoanalytical theory, he knew his silence would only worsen the anxiety he was feeling about everything. But dammit! he couldn't help it! It was almost as if he felt too tired to speak, the effort of actually opening his jaw and speaking seemed entirely not worth it. As much as he would've liked to blame his desire to not speak on laziness, he knew the real reason was because his mind, though categorizing each emotion, was not willing to accept the truth. Speaking would lead to explanations. Explanations would lead to answers. And answers...

Well, answers most likely led you to the truth, as unpleasant as it was. And despite having only half a memory, Reid was sure his memories were pretty far on the unpleasant spectrum of things.

He was disrupted from his self-inquiries by the sound of an irate Morgan standing roughly up from his chair and scoffing. Reid looked up, startled, just in time to see the tall agent cross his arms over his chest, his jaw clench.

"Reid, you may be a lot of things but dumb is definitely not one of them!" he said, his voice low and harsh as he spoke and causing Reid to sink back slightly, confused by Morgan's quick transition from concerned friend to reprimanding friend. Nonetheless, he continued, flailing his arms around with emphasis. "You, more than anyone, know the importance of speaking through traumas! You should know that the only way you can work past everything is to talk about it. No one can help you unless you let them. Don't you want us to help you?" Reid opened his mouth to reply but was never able to speak as Morgan's rant continued, his voice becoming louder and more sharp. "We want you to get better, Reid, but we can't! You've been moping around for a week now!"

Okay, now he was angry! How dare Morgan yell at him for moping- he had every right to mope! Didn't he understand that?

Jumping up from his bed and standing an inch taller than the agent, he roared in a quivering, dry from infrequent use voice, "I'm not moping!"

"You barely eat! You barely sleep! You don't even talk-"

"I don't want to talk!" Reid countered, stomping his foot on the ground before he even realized what he was doing.

Morgan snorted though, seeing through the thin excuse. "Why? What do you think is going to happen if you talk? Only good things from come out of it, it can only help you get better. Or do you not want to get better?"

Reid's blood was boiling, his skin red and fevered as he felt his anger and rage soar with every spoken word that left the man's lips. He had always known Morgan to be blunt, but this was outright insensitive! He had no right to accuse Reid of any of these things- no right to even think them! He had no idea what he had gone through, what torture he had lived through- nevermind that not even Reid knew exactly all of what he had experienced. Morgan was out of line!

"I always thought you were strong, man, but letting Andrew get to you like this is making me question myself. Not even capable of speaking now..." Morgan snorted and something within Reid snapped.

Hazel eyes wide, pale lips quivering, the young patient yelled as loud as his scratchy voice could manage, "I don't want to speak because I don't want to hear about it!" Surprised by the usually quiet man's outburst, Morgan leaned back, eyebrow raised, as Reid said in a much quieter voice, "I know you, Morgan. You'll want to ask me questions and you'll want to tell me about everything you know that happened when...everything that happened to me."

Morgan stared at him for a long time, licking his lips as he let his arms fall to his side. "Why don't you want to know? If it were me I'd want to know everything," he said.

"Yeah, well...I'm not you," Reid said, averting his eyes from his strong and firm gaze and to the floor. "I remember every single thing that's ever happened to me, except for that week. I just...I just want to be able to forget for a little while longer before I can't anymore." There. He said it. He didn't care how weak or cowardly it sounded, it was the truth. And maybe now Morgan would get off his back.

Not once tearing his gaze away from the floor, Reid let himself plop down on his mattress, slumping forward as he listened to the rustle of clothing that indicated Morgan's movement. The mattress dipped as the suspended agent sat down beside him, careful to make sure that there was enough distance between them to prevent any contact.

"I didn't know that. I just assumed that-" he began, but Reid cut him off.

"That because I take in facts like it's oxygen that I'd want to know everything about it?" Reid finished and Morgan nodded, wincing when he heard Reid sigh beside him. He sounded so tired. "I just...want to be ignorant a little while longer." He hesitated then, biting his lip before saying, "Does that make me...weak?"

Morgan shook his head so quickly he nearly gave himself whiplash. "No! Of course it doesn't! Anyone would feel the same way, and they don't even have photographic memories!" Backtracking in his words, Morgan then hastily added, "When I said that you were weak before, I didn't mean it. Honestly. I just wanted-"

Reid waved a hand in the air dismissively, the ghost of a smile on his face as he said, "Yeah, I know that. Reverse psychology to get me to speak, oldest trick in the book."

Breathing a sigh of relief, Morgan couldn't help but smirk. The kid was smart. Looking up to the ceiling, he ran over the words of Reid's confession, his smirk faltering as he said, "I never really thought of an eidetic memory as being bad. I always thought it'd be cool to remember everything. Being able to recall everything you learned for a test, never being wrong about what was said in a fight or remembering exactly how many pens you've let people borrow-"

"One hundred and eighty-six," Reid said slowly, causing Morgan to stumble in his words. When he saw the questioning look on Morgan's face, he said, "You've borrowed one hundred and eighty-six pens from me since we started working together three years ago. That number, of course, doesn't include all the pens you've borrowed from everyone else."

Morgan sat there, dumbstruck and with his mouth slung open as the words registered. Did he really keep a tab on his pen-borrowing habits? Unable to suppress the impulse, he chuckled and said, "Fair enough, Pretty Boy." His heart soared when he saw Reid's smile widen, his eyes glistening with amusement at their banter. Oh yes, his good friend was definitely still there. And was apparently baited out only when he was able to make a cheap shot about Morgan.

The amusement of the situation fading, he returned back to more important matters. "But anyway, I guess I never considered all of the bad things about remembering everything," he explained with a shrug and Reid snorted.

"Neither did I until now." He bit his lip before adding, "You know, when he...Andrew...drugged me at the Flats, I forgot all of that too because of the drug. I hated not remembering then. It felt like I was harming myself by forgetting. But now I ugh...I kinda like the idea of not remembering all of it."

He was pushing his luck here, but Morgan couldn't help himself as he asked, "How much do you remember?"

When Reid's lips pursed and his body visibly stiffened, he opened his mouth to apologize and take back all that he had said, but was stopped by the answer to his question. "Just the torture, I guess. Not a lot." Suddenly, Reid jumped and turned to Morgan, his eyebrows knitted as he said, "There are two questions though I want answered."

"What are they, Kid?"

Reid licked his lips. "What...What happened to him? Andrew, I mean?"

"Awaiting trial, but from what I've gathered, he's going to get off with the insanity plea," Morgan said, shrugging his shoulder as he attempted to hide the loathing in his voice. If he could only have gotten in that one punch...

"Insanity plea?" Reid asked, his eyebrows shooting up to nearly hide behind his hair. And considering the short length, that was a mighty distance to cross.

Morgan nodded though, as he explained, "Yeah, paranoid schizophrenic with dementophobia."

"Oh," was all Reid said, turning away as he thought about the diagnosis. Seemed accurate, considering all that he had observed from the notes. But the answer seemed to only create more questions, leaving much left to be desired. What was he trying to do? Why would someone with a phobia of insanity surround themselves with it? Would the judge and jury go for the claim? Would he be put behind a bar cell, or behind a caged window?

"What was the second question?" Morgan asked, suddenly drawing Reid away from his thoughts.

Startled, he licked his lips and timidly asked the question he felt least confident in asking. "Was there ugh...by any chance, did Andrew have a partner?" he asked, and he received his answer not in words, but in action. The way Morgan's face paled and jaw clenched, alongside with the way his shoulders were pulled inward as his eyes avoided Reid's, could only be indicative of one thing. Something very, very bad had happened, and it was regarding Andrew's partner.

"Morgan?" Reid asked, tilting his head upward to better view the eyes that avoided him. "What is it? Tell me."

Morgan stood suddenly, rubbing one hand over his head as he paced about the room. "No, you said you wanted to forget it for a little while longer," he said.

"Liar, you just don't want to be the one who tells me," Reid found himself saying before he could stop himself, watching as Morgan's lips parted and a barely audible choking sound was heard from his throat.

"Reid, you don't-" Morgan started and Reid cut him off.

"I just want to know if he had a partner or not," the man said innocently. But Morgan didn't answer him- he couldn't. He was glued in place as he realized the worst had yet to come. Reid had no memories of the betrayal he suffered.

But he would. Soon enough he'd remember it.

xXx

**Author's Note:**** Next chapter is on its way. I am soooooooooo! Sorry about the confusion with all these chapters and miscalculations. Wanna hear a funny joke?**

**According to my outline, this story was supposed to be twenty chapters.**

**That worked out swimmingly, huh? Oh outlines and plot bunnies...how miserable you make me.**

**ALSO! Morgan wasn't really fighting, he was employing reverse psychology (it seems harsh, but it's actually extremely effective. Many psychiatrists and therapists will say horrid things like "Keep living that way and get yourself placed in a group home where you do nothing with yourself. Live your life on medication that makes you gain weight and act like a zombie" and etc. It tends to scare patients with the consequences of their behavior) I imagine Morgan, with how frank he is, to be very candid when it comes to therapies.**


	26. Chapter 26

**Disclaimer:**** Criminal Minds and all its associated characters are property to CBS and no profit is being made from this story.**

**Chapter Twenty-Six: Slaying Dragons**

_'Fairy tales don't tell children that dragons exist- children already know that dragons exist. Fairy tales tell children that dragons can be killed.' -G.K. Chesterton_

"I call shot gun!" Garcia shouted, throwing her purse the small distance from where she stood over to the passenger's side of the large SUV, smirking when it landed on the cushioned seat. "Goal!" she cheered, throwing her fists above her head in a victorious gesture as Rossi rolled his eyes and JJ laughed.

"I'll drive," Emily said, taking one of the key sets from Hotch as she joined Garcia and JJ, rolling her black suitcase with her.

"Okay, by the time we get there it will be about five, so here's what we'll do," Rossi said, clapping his hands together as he leaned against the second SUV. "We'll check into the hotel, then we'll meet up with Morgan, get dinner, and bring it back to the hospital. Sound good?"

Garcia placed her hand over her brow and then shot it out in a straight line as she said, "Aye aye, Captain! Now let's go!" She pushed her purse off the seat and settled into the car, bouncing excitedly as JJ smirked and helped Emily put the final bag in the trunk. They were preparing for the somewhat long drive to Pennsylvania for their weekend with Reid, hoping that there wouldn't be any incoming cases until Monday, giving them the full two days to visit. With Agent Baptiste and Agent Johnson's promises to keep the paperwork maintained, they were ready to shirk off all work related responsibilities and focus only on their friend.

"Come on, guys!" Garcia said impatiently as JJ and Emily entered the car.

"Hold your horses," Emily said with a chuckle as she deliberately held the keys up and placed it in the ignition as slow as possible, smirking at Garcia's exasperated expression. When it looked like the techie couldn't stand the wait any longer, Emily laughingly turned the key, revving the engine as she began to slowly pull out.

Hotch and Rossi waited for the first SUV containing the three ladies to enter the road before Hotch turned the key, the engine roaring into life, and followed the same path, sighing as he began the four hour or so long ride. He really did hate driving. So tedious. So time consuming.

"Do you think he'll be alright?" Rossi asked, reminding Hotch that he wasn't alone. He had the tendency to do that every now and then- zone out during long car rides if there wasn't anything to occupy his attention. He'd forget his own son was in the car with him if the young boy wasn't constantly asking questions. But Jack wasn't in the car- he was with his aunt for the weekend.

Sighing, Hotch said, "I don't know. Morgan was very vague about the progress he's made..."

"He's sane now. And he has some of his memories back. The trauma had to have set in by now. And knowing Reid, he probably feels embarrassed," Rossi mused and Hotch turned to him for a second before looking back to the road.

"Embarrassed?"

Rossi shrugged. "Well, think about it. If you're biggest fear in the entire world was insanity and you momentarily became insane and accused your closest friends of not being real, how would you feel? He's probably embarrassed that he let something like that happen."

"He didn't let it happen," Hotch thought, a voice in his mind piping in, _'you did.'_

"I know he didn't. But that's how he'll feel. Most victims often focus on the least devastating emotion after-"

Hotch interrupted him, an eyebrow lifted as he said, "You're profiling him." It wasn't a question, but a statement. Rossi was silent for a moment before raising one shoulder and nodding.

"Yes, I am." After a tense moment, he added, "Embarrassment is easier to process than anger, guilt, regret, hate...all of it. He'll feel embarrassed first, than when that emotion gets old, he'll register all the others."

Hotch nodded in agreement, knowing he was right. Denial would make it take longer for all the other emotions to process. So what then would happen when they did? How would he react when everything else fully came to? Sure, he was probably feeling other emotions. And sure, he was probably aware of all the other emotions. But he wasn't really feeling them- not yet anyway. What would happen when he did? How would he handle it? Would he regress, shut down and become despondent? Or would he act out, scream and become violent? There was no telling with Reid, no precedents to guide you, no suitable profiles to dictate what would happen to him. That was one thing Hotch had learned early on- Reid was like no other.

He was strong and stubborn.

But sometimes he tried to be stronger than anyone could ever be.

Would he stretch himself too thin? Would he try to do it without help? He was stubborn like that. It was almost as if he exaggerated the capabilities of others. He saw an above-averagely strong human being and built them up to be Superman. Of course, it wasn't unusual. Like most physically disadvantaged people, Reid felt inferior when it came to anything outside the realm of academics. He felt weak. But he wasn't. Reid was anything but weak.

"Do you think he'll let people help him?" Hotch asked, licking his lips.

Rossi sighed. "I honestly don't know. Reid's never been placed in a situation like this."

Hotch had always taken advantage of Reid's intelligence, always forgot that there was a person around the brain. It wasn't intentional- he _did_ care for Reid, just like he did all his other team members. But when the boy genius spoke, it was sometimes too difficult to remember that he _was_ human, and not just an encyclopedia. In his own way, he mistreated Reid. Forgot that not everything could be learned through books. Forgot that Reid didn't know how to deal with trauma because that sort of thing isn't found in physics texts. It was his job to tell him. His job to prepare him for the stress this career could create. But when he started his first case, he just seemed so collected, so analytical. He didn't see a mutilated, dead person. He saw a cadaver- a souvenir of a criminal. The body was synonymous with the physical evidence- the fingerprints, the hair follicles. Not a no-longer-living person. He forgot. He forgot that just because Reid could dissociate himself from the crimes they saw, that he was still a feeling human.

"I should have prepared him better," Hotch breathed.

Rossi looked at him from the corner of his eye as he shook his head slowly. "No one could be prepared for this. You know that, Hotch."

"Do you think he'll come back?" Hotch asked and it took his friend a second to figure out what he meant. Come back...to the BAU. Come back to the job that had broken him in the first place. Come back to the people that had let him down.

xXx

"You cheated," Morgan accused, folding his arms over his chest as Reid smirked, shrugging his shoulders as he placed his cards down and pulling the chips towards him.

"I didn't cheat," he said, still smirking as Morgan continued to scowl. Looking over the chips, he then said, "You owe me fifty bucks. Pay up."

Morgan sighed. "What would you do with it here? Buy some Zoloft?" he joked, earning an eye roll from his companion. "How about I get you some books or something instead? Something to keep you occupied while you're here." The instant Reid's smile fell and his fingers loosened around the chips he knew he had said something wrong.

"How long will I be here for?" Reid asked quietly, his eyes settling on the table as he pulled his hands into his lap.

The dark-skinned agent regarded him for a moment before saying, "I don't know. Your new doctor hasn't said anything to me. Still processing everything."

Reid had been given a new doctor with his ward transfer- one more specialized in trauma. Morgan hadn't even met this new doctor, hadn't even heard a name for him. "How do you like him?" he asked.

Scoffing, Reid raised a brow. "I don't. He's the type of doctor who tries to cure people with as much chemicals as possible," he said, not looking up from the table.

"You've talked to him for what? Five minutes?" Morgan challenged.

"Yes, and apparently he decided those five minutes were enough for him to prescribe me Klonopin for anxiety, Wellbutrin for depression and Seroquel for sleep aids," Reid said, counting the drugs off with his fingers. "He took four minutes to talk to me and one to set up a pattern of drugs to pump into me."

Morgan raised a brow. "Maybe he's good at his job."

"Or too lazy to do real work," Reid muttered and Morgan pretended not to hear him. He knew that the issue wasn't really with the doctor, just the idea of taking so many drugs. He hated medicines of all types. His thoughts were disrupted by Reid's question. "When's everyone getting here?"

Startled by the sudden change in conversation, it took him several seconds to fully register the question and answer. "Hotch said around five or something, but they need to check in first. They'll call me and let me know I need to meet them. What do you want for dinner?" He paused before adding with a sly grin, "Chinese?"

Reid felt his nose crinkle as he shook his head. That stupid chopstick incident would follow him to Hell and back wouldn't it? Trying not to let the jab get to him, he said, "I think Greek, actually. Felafels sound good." Now it was Morgan's turn to crinkle his nose. It was half spite that made Reid suggest the food type, knowing his friend disliked it. Plus, he could really go for some felafels.

"If you insist," Morgan said before mumbling, "I'll just get some pizza."

The phone went off then, and the two men stilled at the little jingle. Smiling, Morgan pulled the phone from his pocket and answered it, enjoying the nervous way Reid looked up and licked his lips, seeming like it took all his self-control to not attack Morgan for the phone. "Hey," he answered, smiling openly now as Reid craned his head forward and sat on the edge of his bed, holding onto the small table between them. After a moment, he asked, "Which hotel are you at? Okay, I'll meet you there then. Yeah, he wants Greek. I was going to get pizza for myself." He rolled his eyes here, and Reid smiled, knowing that Rossi probably said something along the lines of _'Not even going to try it? You're like a child.'_

God, he missed his team so much...

He was brought back to the present moment by Morgan standing up, the cellphone still against his ear as he said, "Yep, I'm getting ready to leave now. Want to talk to Reid?" The look on the young man's face was priceless- a cross between violent anxiety and excited anticipation as though he would readily jump at Morgan for the device. He reached out and took the phone, trembling as he brought it to his ear.

"Hello?" he said, clearing his throat softly as his hands shook with nerves.

"Hey, Reid," Rossi answered, sounding almost relieved. The familiar voice felt foreign, yet comforting. It had been so long since he heard their voices. Even longer since he heard them and believed that they weren't illusions. Reid wanted to say more, wanted to tell Rossi how excited he was to see them, how happy he was that they were coming to visit him. But his throat was constricting around itself, his airways cut off as he swallowed hard. Rossi spoke before he could work through the clump in his throat. "How are you?"

"Fine," he said, his voice squeaking, suddenly at a loss for words. Yes, it was possible. Even Spencer Reid, Rambler Extraordinaire, could be at a loss for suitable phrases to say. So, with nothing else to add, he returned the question. "You?"

He could practically hear Rossi smirk. "You sound awfully casual." Before Reid could even think of a retort, he heard Hotch in the background, his heart leaping at his boss's voice.

"We're here," the deep baritone said.

"Gotta go, Reid. We'll see you in a bit," Rossi said.

Saying their good byes, the two men hung up and Reid looked up at Morgan, smiling perhaps the most genuine smile he had in months.

"I'll be right back," Morgan said, grabbing the phone and shoving it and his hands inside his pockets. He smiled to Reid before leaving the room and heading out to meet with the team, leaving the young man alone.

xXx

If anyone had asked Reid what he was doing, he would've lied. Or at least tried to. He was a very poor liar- obvious ticks, eye contact avoidance and whatnot. But he would've tried to lie despite his inability to do so because he, quite simply, felt pathetic with the truth of his actions.

Since Morgan's departure, Reid sat on his bed, the small, digital clock in his lap as he watched each minute pass. Each minute that he was alone. Each minute that his family wasn't here. But they would be. And he couldn't wait to see them- see how much they changed. Vaguely, he wondered if they would like his new haircut.

"What are you doing?" an amused voice from the doorway spoke.

Oh no. Time to lie.

"I ugh...I..." he started, feeling his palms shake and grow tacky with sweat as he licked his lips. He was so terrible at lying. Looking up, he visibly relaxed when he saw the smiling face of Tori, her body leaning against the black door frame.

"I hear your team's coming to visit you soon," she said.

Reid nodded eagerly, happy to see his favorite nurse. Being that she worked on the Psychoses unit of the hospital, she was no longer constantly working the halls of his ward and he was missing her presence in the week and a half since he had been moved.

"When are they getting here?" she asked and he shrugged his shoulders lamely.

"I don't know. Morgan went out to meet them," he said, hoping she would keep him company until his friend's did show. It got awfully lonely by himself, surrounded by nothing but the cold, pale blue walls and white linen. So impersonal.

She smirked, pulling her hand out from behind her back to show a large shopping bag. "Care to make it a special occasion?" she asked, moving the bag sideways as he groaned. She was too kind to him- it really made him feel so guilty. But, secretly and though he would never openly admit it, he liked being coddled. It was a nice, comforting feeling.

Tori moved over to his bed, sitting down in the seat Morgan had previously occupied as she motioned for Reid to make room. He did so, putting the clock to his side as she held the bag upside down and shook it out, letting the clothes fall onto his mattress. Clothes- actual clothes! He had worn nothing but sweatpants and pajama bottoms for his entire stay, his few jeans having long since been lost when he decided how cumbersome real clothes were when someone had nowhere to go.

"Now, I had to guess with the jeans, so you'll have to try them on first but I think one or two might fit," she said as he began rummaging through the clothes, pulling out a pair of dark blue jeans and a white, pinstriped button down. Tori smiled her approval. "Fine choice, of course." She then looked back at the pile of clothes and made a small, "oh!" sound as she grabbed something and held it up for him to see. "New socks!" she cheered, showing off the two pairs, one black with purple stripes and the other black with orange leaves littered like polka dots over it.

Reid smirked as he reached out and grabbed them, admiring the new socks. He had so many as it was, but he always loved receiving them. A part of him wondered if she spoiled any of the other patients like this. He hoped not. Was that jealousy, he felt?

"Go try them on now! You might need to go through all of the jeans to find a pair that fit," she said and he stood, making his way to the bathroom. He closed the door behind him and quickly began wiggling out of his sweats, admiring the new clothes he held in his hands. He would have to pay her back somehow. Spoil her just as much as she spoils him.

He kicked the sweats off of his feet and began to put one leg in, thinking that Tori did a wonderful job with the size. They seemed to fit alright, even as he pulled them over his hips. They were a little baggy in the waist and hung too low for his liking, but it was nothing a belt couldn't fix.

Wait.

"No belts," he breathed out, remembering the policy. No belts, no bags, no strings on pants or hoodies...it had taken a world of convincing just to keep his nightlight! _"It has glass,"_ was the argument the new doctor had used. Thankfully, it took only one night of Reid screaming his throat raw for him to get the hint and let him have the nightlight regardless of the rules. Come to think of it, perhaps the Seroquel _was_ a good idea. Maybe his sleeping schedule would become less erratic.

Feeling much like a child with all the rules and regulations restricting him, he slipped his shirt off, pausing to stare at his reflection. God, he was so skinny. He always had been. His upper arms were about the size of the average person's forearms and his shoulders were slender, making his head seem too big for his body. Or maybe that was just his perception. People always viewed their bodies weird.

He hated his body. He was so wiry, so scrawny. How could anyone find him attractive? And goodness knows the scars didn't help! But then again, he had heard that many women liked scars. Before he could stop it, he found himself thinking an absurd thought indeed!: _'I wonder if JJ likes scars.'_ But the second the idea was fully finished, he shook it from his mind. JJ would never go for him. Besides, he shouldn't be entertaining such thoughts. In this current situation, he couldn't really care about relationships anyway.

He didn't even know what brought the notion on.

Sighing, he grabbed the button down shirt and put his arms through the sleeve, buttoning it slowly up. The shirt, like the jeans, was a little too big, but not ridiculously so. He really needed to gain some weight. But he couldn't very well force food down his throat! His appetite had dwindled down to barely nothing in the past two weeks, the memories he was being assaulted with were too prominent for food to matter.

Comparatively, he had actually recalled very few things so far. Aside from the memories of Andrew torturing him, the one shower incident, and the memory that presented a second person, he knew nothing of that week.

The partner...

Morgan had acted very weird when he asked about the possibility, going to great lengths to keep the truth from Reid. But with the memories came the young genius's sharp intellect and observational skill, and he knew beyond a doubt that there _was_ a partner, and that whatever happened involving this conspirator, Morgan did not want to say.

Reid sighed in frustration. If only he could remember! He couldn't even remember the briefing for the case, his mind was so fuzzy. The last clear memory he had was waking up to Hotch's phone call and thinking entirely too much about coffee.

He really needed to lay off the caffeine. He was pretty positive not having constant access to coffee was partly responsible for his lack of appetite and inability to sleep, as ironic as it seemed. He was going through withdrawal from the substance, and his right mind only worsened the symptoms. Maybe, when he was discharged, he would switch to tea. Or at least decaf.

He came back into the room, standing with arms spread slightly so Tori could see the garment.

"Well?" he asked, and she hummed in response.

"It's too big. But those were the smallest I think," she said, letting her dark eyes trail over to the pile of clothes. Shrugging, she waggled a finger in front of her face as she said in a no-nonsense tone, "You need to eat more! You're nothing but skin and bones!" Standing, she moved closer to him and examined the outfit, chuckling when she saw the blue waistband of his underpants.

"You need a belt," she said, pointing downwards.

He quirked a brow and followed the direction her finger pointed in, turning a fierce shade of crimson when he saw his exposed boxer briefs. How had the pants slipped so low on him? Quickly, he reached down and pulled his pants up further, before they could reveal anymore of him. But he couldn't look up at her, knowing she would smirk at his red face and ears.

The tingling sound of her laughter filled the air, and he breathed slightly, realizing that she wasn't laughing at his expense. Not really.

"I thought they wouldn't fit, and so I brought some ties. You can't have belts, but you can have alternatives," she said, reaching into her pocket and pulling out some twisty-ties. He watched as she bent over and went to loop one through the belt loop, the sudden tug of his pants startling him with another memory.

_The blindfold slid over his eyes, obscuring his view of the partially darkened room surrounding him. His wrists were tied down, though in a different way than what he was used to, keeping his back to the ceiling instead of his stomach. His knees dug into the mattress as he shifted around, feeling a new weight pull him downward slightly as someone sat behind me._

_Inexplicable currents of dread ran through him, an understanding of what was about to occur sending signals of fear through the synapses in his mind. He began pulling on the restraints, falling backwards as he was unable to fight using his feet, knowing he would fall. Blood muffled the noises surrounding him, a slight ringing encasing his eardrums. Hands grabbed his hips, the fingers pinching the fabrics of a hospital gown as it began to slowly inch up his waist. _

"_NO!" he roared, pulling his pelvis down to the mattress to avoid the hands._

_But the hands returned as whoever it was straddled his hips and shoved the gown upward, exposing him entirely. He struggled, pulling the restraints and feeling blood trickle down his wrists. He worked frantically to get away, squirming to get out from the weight of the person. And then it happened._

_The sound of the zipper invaded his ears._

_His body lurched forward, only to be pulled back._

_Pain rippled through him, tears misting his eyes and dampening the blindfold. His mind could focus only on the burning, tearing pain, the sound of the restraints moving with him grating his senses..._

Reid was screaming, his throat on fire with the strain of his shouts.

The memory, horrifically detailed and all-too real, had forced him down to the floor, his knees drawn inward as he shielded his face from view, his fingers clinging to the small locks of hair. How did it hurt so much? How could he feel the pain, even though it happened so long ago, like it was new? His entire body was wracked in a dull ache, trembling with the memory.

Was that why Morgan had been so reluctant to tell him?

"No. No. No," he muttered over and over again, squeezing his eyes shut. No, that wasn't what happened. It couldn't have happened. Reid had been tortured, yes. But that was it. Nothing like...like _that!_ Had happened to him. It was a false memory- they happen all the time.

_'False memories only occur under the power of suggestion and usually take place from early childhood,'_ his mind fired back at him, but he shook his head against the claims. He was wrong. He had to be. What he had remembered happening to him never happened. It was a fake memory, an uncontrolled response by his limbic system and hiccocampus brought on from the desire to recall more. That was all. That _didn't_ happen to him. It couldn't.

"Spencer!" Tori was yelling, kneeling in front of him as she attempted to calm him down. If he didn't collect himself soon, he would attract the attention of the orderlies and nurse staff, and they would give him the needle. Sending a worried glance to the hallway, she bit her lip and tried again to get his attention.

"Spencer, please! Listen to me! Focus on my voice!"

"Tell me it isn't real," he begged, his face still out of view from behind his arms and pulled in knees. Her brows knitted in confusion. Tell him that what wasn't real? What had he remembered?

"Spencer-" she started, but he cut her off, his hands falling from his hair as he threw his head back, looking up to the ceiling as it banged harshly against the wall.

"Say it isn't real! Please!"

She shook her head, pulling a hand to her breast and fisting it, as though tightening it around her fast-beating heart at the scene before her. "Spencer, what did you see? You need to calm down for me to answer you," she said, loud but soothing as she sent another glance to the hall. He needed this visit, he couldn't lose it because of the overreaction to a flashback. Biting her lip, she looked back at him, visibly relaxing as she saw recognition of her words flicker over his barely-seen face. He had heard her words and was somehow calming himself, his breathing becoming even once more as he slowly tilted his head back to face her. His lip was quivering and his eyes were glassy with tears, making Tori suddenly aware of what he most likely remembered. She had seen his intake forms...

"The memories...they're fake?" he asked, an eyebrow raising with the question.

She took a deep, steadying breath. "I'm going to reach out and grab your hand now, Spencer," she warned, enunciating clearly while doing as she said she would, entwining her fingers through his own shaking and white appendages, feeling him tense at the contact. Clearing her throat, she asked, "What did you remember? What do you think isn't real?" She already knew the answer- already knew what she would have to say to him. She couldn't lie, even if it would make it better for him at the moment. He needed to know the truth, and she would give it to him.

Licking his lips, he averted his eyes as he said, "Someone...doing stuff to me." He didn't want to say it, afraid that his words might work as a spell and make it true. Didn't want to speak the damning words, the words that would reignite the feelings of humiliation and stupidity that he had only recently come to terms with. He couldn't say it- not like it mattered though, because it most definitely didn't happen. That's right.

It.

Did.

Not.

Happen.

Tori sighed though, shuffling closer as she laid his hand down in her lap, squeezing it tightly as she reached another hand out, letting him watch her as she laid her palm against his cheek. He flinched again, but didn't shirk away from her touch. She could see the fear though, and feel it too, the muscles of his face and hand tightly constricted.

"Spencer, I need you to understand that it isn't your fault," she said, immediately regretting it when his eyes widened and he pulled back, leaping to his feet and stumbling to the side. The glint in his eyes was wild, like a trapped animal as he shook his head, his mouth opening and closing several times as he tried to speak but couldn't find the necessary words.

"No," he whispered as Tori stood, five inches shy of his height as she placed her hands in front of her body, palms outward.

"Calm down. You need to relax," she said, feeling her heart and throat tighten as his face crumpled, tears falling down his cheeks.

How could he have let that happen? How could he have been so...so weak? He felt embarrassed. Powerless. Debilitated. But overall, he felt disgusting. He felt foul and filthy. He _was_ filthy, his skin crawling over the muscles and bones of his structure as a thick layer of grime coated him. He felt slimy, revolting, like he was covered in some toxic goo. He heard Tori call to him, heard her say his name over and over again, but couldn't focus on the words and notes she said. All he could hear was a loud, overwhelming thump.

Was that his heart, beating so erratically?

It wasn't important. What was important was that he had his memory back. More of it, at least. But nothing he could recall could be more monumental, more traumatic. He remembered all he needed to- enough for him to know he would much rather be insane and ignorant.

xXx

"Down this way," Morgan said, shifting the weight of the pizza box in his hands as he lead his team through the halls of the psychiatric hospital. Behind him, Hotch juggled three bags of Reid's requested cuisine as the rest of the team did the same with the drinks, awkwardly balancing seven twenty ounce bottles.

"Are we almost there, Morgan? I'm hungry," Emily said, smiling as she received a scathing glance from Morgan. He was already agitated from the constant insults regarding his inability to try new food, now they had to start the 'Are we there yet?' game?

Sighing, he said, "It's this floor, Prentiss, so relax."

She chuckled and he just rolled his eyes. It was good to see them again, all taunting jokes aside. Having gone three months without seeing them, he hadn't realized how much he had missed them until now, when he finally saw them. He couldn't imagine how anxious and excited Reid was feeling. He smirked, knowing that the young man was most likely driving the nurses insane.

"Right here," he said, nodding to the double doors ahead of them as he reached one hand out to press the button against the wall, a loud, buzzing sound filling the air around them. A light above the framing blinked green and Morgan shoved his shoulder forward, pushing the heavy door open and holding it as the team pushed past him, entering the small section between the two doors. After closing the metal entrance, he repeated the process with the second set of doors, finally emerging into the corridor, abuzz with activity.

He furrowed his brow. Rarely ever were so many nurses and orderlies on the floor at this time, unless a patient was having an 'episode' as they called it. Who was breaking down now?

"Agent Morgan!" A male nurse- Nick- called from behind the station, leaning forward with his hands gripping the laminate counter, a look of relief washing over him.

It was Reid.

It had to be.

The staff would respond to seeing him that way unless Reid was the one in trouble.

Pushing himself forward as he handed the pizza box to Rossi, he cocked his head and said, "What is it? Is Reid alright?"

Looking nervously at the other members, Nick pointed to them and said, "Your team?" When Morgan nodded, he sighed and shook his head. "He had a flashback, a bad one, from what Tori described. We didn't sedate him, Tori managed to calm him down enough but he's...upset. We had to call in Dr. Greene for an emergency interview. He's in there now."

Dr. Greene. That must've been the new doctor assigned to Reid- the one he disliked. Frowning, Morgan nodded. "Do you know what he remembered?"

Nick shook his head. "Confidential matters, you now. Tori's the only nurse who knows the specifics of his case," he said, shrugging his shoulders and then saying, "You can go in. I'm sure seeing his team will help."

_'I hope so,'_ Morgan thought as he turned to face the others, biting his lip as they all looked to him as though he would answer all their questions.

"Derek?" JJ started, her eyebrows raising. Her voice was filled with worry at the vagueness of Nick's words. But Morgan didn't know what to say to her, knowing that the truth was not what she wanted to hear. Reid would feel worse seeing his team, if the flashbacks were bad. He would feel embarrassed and angry and stupid, much like he did when he had first stepped out of insanity and saw Morgan. But what would he say? 'Thanks for coming, but you being here will only make him more upset'? No, he couldn't do that. They needed to see Reid, and Reid would need to get used to their presence eventually.

Sighing, he said, "Let's go check it out."

He then turned and headed in the direction of Reid's room, trying his best not to run in and only cause a larger scene. It was difficult, as the fierce protectiveness he felt over the young agent had only grown in the near four months he spent visiting the hospital. But he reached the room in a facade of calm, the team following behind him as he peered in only to be ambushed by a flustered Tori.

"Agent Morgan!" she squealed, covering her face as she wiped away the remains of tears on her cheeks.

"What's wrong? What happened?" Morgan asked as he reached out and gripped her shoulders, squeezing them encouragingly. And then, the question that sat on the tip of his tongue, the answer to which he feared, he then asked, "What did he remember?"

She shook her head, wringing her hands. "I had given him some clothes, to try on. He put these jeans on and they were too big, but nothing a twisty-tie wouldn't fix. I didn't know it would trigger him!" she defended, guilt and horror evident on her panic-stricken face, black wisps of hair poking out from her bun. Finishing the story, she said, "He...remembered the abuse. The...sexual abuse. I'm so sorry."

"It's not your fault," Morgan said, squeezing her shoulders. "He would have remembered eventually, it wasn't because of you." He seemed calm and assured, but on the inside, his body was a jumble of apprehension and fear. He remembered it then- the abuse he suffered at the hands of Varney. How would he react? How _did_ he react? Swallowing, Morgan realized with the growing feeling of self hate that he hadn't been there when Reid needed him most. _Once again._

She nodded, though she looked none too convinced at his words. Regardless, she stepped outside of the doorway and into the hall, smiling half-heartedly at Reid's teammates. For a second, it looked as though she were going to greet them all but thought better of it, turning on her heels and leaving with the squeak of her shoes.

Tearing his eyes from her retreating back, Morgan looked into the room and saw Reid sitting at the head of the bed, curled into himself as the doctor- presumably Dr. Greene- sat beside him on the desk chair. They were involved in a deep, quiet conversation which ended abruptly when Dr. Greene looked up and saw the agents, smiling warmly at them as he waved them forward.

"Your visitors are here, Spencer," he said as he beckoned them forward, causing the young man to look up at them as they slowly entered the room, a storm of conflicting emotions waging war in his tired hazel eyes.

"Spence," JJ said in an exhale, her hands reaching to cover her mouth as she placed her bag of drinks on the floor and moved towards him, her lips twitching into a smile.

"I-" he started, his eyes darting to look at Morgan. Searchingly, he said, "Who was he?"

Thrown off by the sudden question and dismissal of the team's presence, the agent looked at him, his lip falling open and shut several times. Who was who? Who was Reid asking about? Wasn't he excited to see his team?

"The partner," Reid clarified, his eyes straining as he tried to avoid looking at his colleagues. He knew the second he let his eyes wander over to them, he would be momentarily distracted. He would engage in conversations, pushing the memories as far from his mind as possible, in order to make the best of what would be a too-short visit. So, he needed to get his answers first, before he let the visitors consume his full attention.

"Reid, I don't think you really want to know," Morgan said, looking over to Hotch and Rossi as though begging for their interference. He didn't want to have this conversation with his friend- not now, not ever.

But Reid wouldn't have it. Shaking his head firmly as his lips snapped into a thin, white line, he said, "You don't know what I want. Who was it?"

Dr. Greene stood now, the team becoming aware that he, in fact, had never left the room and was still there. He was a rather short man, around five feet, two inches, with thinning red hair and pale, freckled skin that looked rather bizarre on a man who appeared to be in his late fifties. Walking around the bed, he extended his hand to Morgan, who stared at it for several long seconds before taking it in his own and shaking it.

"I'm Dr. Greene, Agent Morgan, as I'm sure you've already put together," he said, smiling briefly before adding, "I will be heading into my office now, to update some files. But, might I suggest that you inform Spencer of the partner? He will be better off knowing, though you may not think so." Sending an appraising look to the young patient, he then said, "Monsters are easier to deal with when they have a human face and name."

As he left the room, followed by the narrowed eyes of Reid, they heard a low growl come from the young man's throat. "He talks like I'm not even here!" he grumbled, rolling his eyes and turning them back to Morgan expectantly, wanting answers. He waited patiently as Morgan sighed and rubbed the bridge between his brows, walking over and taking the seat that Dr. Greene had occupied.

But before Morgan could speak, Rossi said "Reid, you need to understand that no one caught it. Andrew's partner is an Antisocial Personality, manipulative, as you know, and it was almost impossible to catch since no one was expecting Andrew to work with anyone." Slowly, Reid nodded, the familiar feeling of fear hollowing out his stomach and tightening his intestines. This wasn't going to be good, he just knew it.

But he had to know! The confusing swirl of the unknown snaking around his head would drive him insane for a second time! Knowing he had been violated and used in such a way was bad enough, but the thought of humanizing his abuser, making it less of a boogeyman and more like man, was comforting. It made the abuser vulnerable, like something he could conquer if he put his mind to it. But in its current state, resembling a shadowed demon that he could not see, only feel, the thought of fighting it seemed unfathomable. Like the lonely, underdog knight of the kingdom being pitted against the plaguing dragon, he could not wield his sword to it. But he knew, somehow he knew, that the instant he had a name, the instant he could imagine human details, the dragon would be whittled down to a homely man, one he could easily slay with just a little a work.

But he was not at all prepared for the name that left Morgan's mouth, and the images that followed.

"Andrew's partner was Heath Varney, Reid," he said quietly, his eyes looking deep into the young agent's. It seemed to take hours- eternities, even- before the words finally registered, the clarity of emotions that became recognizable in the hazel mists. Mortification, regret, resentment, shame...all of it pointed to obvious, self-deprecating thoughts that assaulted his mind. Groaning, Reid leaned forward, shielding his eyes from view.

"Of course, how stupid," he murmured, unintentionally making each and every agent in the room shift uncomfortably where they stood. _They_ were the stupid ones. _They_ had worked side by side with him. _They_ had believed his charades. _They_ nearly let him walk out of the country. _They _let him abuse Reid, time and time again. But as was common for the socially inept genius, he was none-the-wiser to the effect his words had had on his friends, too focused on his guilt to observe the same feeling in the eyes of his colleagues. How did he not see it? How did he not see Varney for what he was?

Of all the people they had ever caught, of all the criminals they had ever studied, Antisocial Personalities were the ones he hated the most. Psychotics were beyond their own reasoning and Neurotics had subjected themselves to their fate, designed by distorted parents or distorted minds. But the ones who were fully aware but uncaring, the ones who were calculating and cold, experimental with another's life, were the ones he despised. With no rhyme or reason, they tempted the devil and cheated the God by regarding life so ungratefully, by knowingly doing what was wrong, what was monstrous. Wasn't that the true definition of evil? Knowing what is wrong and, with that knowledge in mind, doing just that, not because you could justify the reason but just because you could?

And as he had just painfully learned, Antisocials could manipulate you better than any kind being ever could. He had sat beside a monster, a lion in sheep's clothing, and hadn't even known it.

"Spence? Are you okay?"

Reid looked up at the softly spoken words, suddenly aware of the team surrounding him. Right. He had forgotten about that. He was so distraught over the new information that he had let their visit slip his mind. _'Funny,'_ he bitterly thought to himself. _'The elephant seems to have lost its instant recall.'_

Shaking his head of the sobering words his mind uttered to him, he said, "Yeah. Just...shocked, I guess." Well, if that wasn't an understatement. He was more than shocked. He was confused, he was angry, he was embarrassed- but he needed to do as he promised himself he would. He needed to push the revelation from his mind and focus on the visit.

Clearing his throat, he said, "How are you guys?"

Sharing concerned looks, Garcia said, "Reid, honey, it's okay to be upset-"

"I'm not upset," he said, harsher than he had intended. Licking his lips, he added, "I mean...it's fine. It's not a big deal."

"Reid, you don't need to act like it doesn't bother you, any sensible person would be upset," Hotch added.

But Reid said nothing, just stared into the dark, closed eyes of his boss. _'Former boss,'_ he reminded himself, knowing he was being placed on an emergency leave, knowing he was probably replaced by a temporary recruit, as they were often called. Would they keep the recruit though, deciding that the new addition to the team was more reliable, more sane than he was? They wouldn't do that. Would they? No, they were his family. They couldn't replace him anymore than they could their own brother.

Resigning from the argument, he sighed and said, "The food smells good."

No one said anything about the sudden topic change, deciding to give Reid the feigned happy visit he wanted, the visit created on false pretenses of good will.

xXx

**Author's Note:**** Damn writer's block, making it take a couple days to get a chapter out...I do apologize for my apparent inability to update at an acceptable pace. It seems the end of the story is making it more difficult to write...**

**Anyway, thanks for all your kind reviews and whatnot! And I'm glad to hear my wordiness and inability to stick to guidelines have benefited the reviewers and readers who do not wish to see the story end. But it will, at some point, I swear! And then the sequel(s)! Plus, I already ideas for TWO more Criminal Minds story! I'm kind of excited to start them, but they'll have to wait until the sequel(s) are done, or mostly done. I get sidetracked too easily if I try to write too many things at one time (case and point: somewhere, in the long-forgotten folders of my computer, I have an original story that is being sorely neglected...)**

**As always, tell me your thoughts and suggestions. I always love to hear them!**


	27. Chapter 27

**Disclaimer:**** Criminal Minds and all its associated characters are property to CBS and no profit is being made from this story.**

**Chapter Twenty-Seven: The Hurt Is Over**

_'There is something beautiful about all scars of whatever nature. A scar means the hurt is over, the wound is closed and healed- done with.' -Harry Crews_

Reid awoke late Sunday morning, later than he ever recalled sleeping in. Peeking one eye open and looking at the bright light that filtered in through the window, illuminating floating specks of dust, told him that he had slept well into midday. Groaning softly as he rolled onto his back, his eyes squeezed shut, he wished he hadn't woken up at all. It was the first real night of sleep he had experienced in awhile, the Seroquel working wonders for his insomnia, and it was more than disappointing that now it would have to end and he would once more join the waking.

"Good morning, Sleeping Beauty," a rough, amused voice called and his eyes pealed open at the juxtaposition. Such a playful thing to say in such a serious voice. Looking over at Hotch, he scowled at the brief grin that momentarily lighted his boss's face.

"You'd sleep this late too if you were full of drugs," he retorted, cringing at the way his throat burned, the parched quality of it stinging with his words.

Hotch, having heard the hoarseness and seeing his discomfort, reached down to the floor and produced a water bottle, handing it over to the newly awakened patient. "Here, drink this," he said, receiving an appreciative glance from Reid before he twisted off the cap and swallowed several large gulps.

When he had finished, he placed the cap back on and handed it back to Hotch, thanking him, as he sat up against his pillows.

"Where is everyone?" he asked.

"Lunch. I stayed back in case you _finally_ woke up," he answered, making Reid cringe at the emphasis. The first time the man had a sense of humor, and it just had to be at his expense...

"Are you hungry? I have a sandwich here- from Garcia. Along with some cookies and juice boxes," Hotch said as he reached down again and pulled a rather large lunch bag onto his lap as he searched through it.

But Reid shook his head. "No, I'm not very hungry."

Hotch looked up, sighing tiredly as he leaned back and ran a hand over his face. "Reid, you need to eat. You've lost enough weight as it is and-"

"I'm fine," he ground out, cutting him off with his forced words. Hotch regarded him, his dark eyes burning uncomfortably as they traveled down Reid's form as if searching for evidence that he wasn't fine, that he needed to eat. But concealed under a tee shirt and flannel bottoms, the only proof that existed was the way his joints jutted out awkwardly, the pale skin pulled taut over the bones. However, despite the barrier of clothes, Hotch knew that Reid's ribs would be visible, deep creases from where the skin sunk in under bones and muscles, casting dark shadows over his near white complexion.

Sighing, he decided to try a different tactic. "You know, they'll keep you here longer," he said, nonchalantly as Reid turned slightly to eye him out of his periphery. Continuing, he added, "If you don't eat. They'll make you stay longer. They'll take it as a sign that you're not improving or as a desperate attempt to commit suicide." Reid cringed, the bluntness of his superior's words sending shivers of apprehension down his spine. He didn't want to die. Did he? While he couldn't deny that he wasn't the happiest he had ever been- the symptoms of depression well known to him- he didn't necessarily think he was ready nor willing to die.

He let his gaze drop down to the folds in his blanket, the white cotton pulling upwards in rumpled piles from his sleep-filled night. Death...

The hairs on his arm and back of his neck stood on edge at the word- the concept- his skin overcome by prickly gooseflesh. What was it like to die? It was an odd thing, that someone in his profession had never really paused and pondered the facets of death, the last few seconds of life. It had become so commonplace, so natural to just know that people ceased to live. Being the analytic he was, he could break the life and death of any human being down, making it science, making it fact. Someone didn't die from old age, they died from old organs that could no longer function, could no longer support the most complicated system of nature. Someone didn't die from being stabbed, they died from the blood loss or damage to major organs, or, in more gruesome cases, inability to move oxygen throughout their body with a sliced trachea. Death wasn't something that someone wished, death wasn't something that didn't make sense or made people question anything other than the divine.

Death was science.

Never putting thought in it before, his mind finally began to explore death- not with facts, not with statistics- but with raw emotion, raw wondering, and pure confusion.

Did it hurt to die?

Or did one simply cease to feel?

_'I don't want to die,'_ he told himself resolutely, pursing his lips. _'I can't leave my mom, my team.'_ But what if he didn't have his mom or his team to depend on him? What if he simply existed, on his own, no worldly ties, no commitments to hold to? Would he feel the same? Was his only reason to live based now on the need to please others, placing everyone else before himself? Was it selfish to want to die? Or merely self-fulfilling? He didn't know. He couldn't know. People discouraged suicide, claimed it as the coward's way out, a one-way pass to eternal damnation. But that was only a passing trend, wasn't it? Hadn't suicide been hailed as the most honorable death in Japan, to die at one's own sword? Wasn't it viewed as a way to ascend to higher plane of existence by some theologies?

For once, Reid's vast knowledge of random and unusual facts seemed to only make thinking more complicated.

Of course it would though. Depression, suicidal tendencies...it was all so far from logical thought, on an entirely different end of the spectrum. It was all emotive, primitive. There was nothing to back up either side, nothing substantial really. Just societal norms.

But despite the muddled, obtuse concept of killing oneself, there was one thing Reid was certain of. Suicide _was_ cowardly, _was_ weak. It was not just running away from a problem, it was running away from a problem with no definite end in sight; a hallway that only grew with every step, the nebulous door at the end only fading more, the edges becoming a blur. While Reid wasn't exactly the most masculine man, sporting bulking muscles and impeccable physical qualities, he was most certainly not weak. No matter what emotional duress he was going through, what trauma his brain was combating, he would not take the easy way. He would not let himself become so unproductive, so unresponsive, that the only possible solution would be one that was all too permanent. He was stronger than that- strong enough to work through whatever it was he had to work through without resorting to such cowardly methods.

"Reid?"

Blinking, he looked up, the sound of his name startling him from his thoughts. Hotch was staring intently at him, sitting closer than he had been before. Reid paled under the intense look, his shoulders hunching slowly as he unintentionally tried to make himself smaller. The gaze was unsettling, the way his eyes searched his own, as if piercing straight through into his thoughts. For a brief, illogical second, Reid found himself wondering, _'Can he read my mind?'_ but quickly dismissed the idea as ludicrous. Of course he couldn't read his thoughts. How ridiculous of a notion. But he still couldn't help the way he seemed to guard and filter his mind, raising up figurative walls of protection.

"You're not thinking of it, are you?" Hotch asked, his voice low and pressing, betraying the concern that Reid knew lurked behind his words. While Hotch displayed a cold exterior, he was not an unfeeling man.

Raising a brow, he asked, "Thinking of what?"

Hesitating for only a second, Hotch answered, "Killing yourself."

Reid shook his head. "Of course not, Hotch. I couldn't do that to everyone."

Hotch stared at him for a long time afterwards, his lips pinched together as his dark eyes once more perused Reid's own, searching for something. Reading his mind. Unable to look back and allow his entire mind to be open to Hotch's search like an intriguing book, he turned away, looking out the window. Light blue skies with the tops of red and gold leaves filled the casement, the touches of autumn killing the plants. But in death, a new livelihood had been given to the leaves, a new identity.

Was it the same when humans died? Were they reborn into something different, something entirely unique? While Reid was still hazy on what exactly his beliefs were regarding the afterlife, he had never placed much stock into the idea of reincarnation. People lived, people died. That was that.

He could still feel Hotch's eyes burning into his back, a shudder raking through his body. He was well aware of what the man was thinking. When Reid answered, he had said, _"I couldn't do that to everyone." _Anyone who knew Hotch would know that he was honing in on the sentence, dissecting it and analyzing its possible meanings.

Did that mean that if Reid had no one who relied on him, he would be considering it? That Reid was only being selfless, only living for others and not himself?

Slowly, choosing the words carefully, Hotch said, "Would you want to, though?" confirming what Reid had known he was thinking.

But hearing the question asked aloud, knowing with certainty that Hotch was wondering if Reid would take his own life, made him bristle. He felt indignant, infuriated. "I'm stronger than that, Hotch. I may not look it, but I'm not weak," he responded, surprised by the hardness, the sharp and spitting way his voice rang through his lips. He could see Hotch's surprise as well, though fleeting, in the way his eyebrows rose, upturned in the middle, and the way his eyes widened, his lips parting ever so slightly. A part of him wanted to apologize, say he knew that Hotch was just expressing his concern. But he couldn't. Irrationally, he was too insulted to take his words back.

"I know," the older man breathed out finally, his eyes flitting downward.

Moments passed by where nothing was said, the anger and hurt sound of Reid's voice still lingering in the walls, like smoke, sucking out the oxygen from the room. When it seemed like his lungs would collapse, his throat constricting around his trachea, Hotch said, "I'm sorry if I offended you. I know you're not weak."

Reid heard his words, but did nothing to respond. He wanted to believe him, wanted to sigh at relief and trust his statement. He couldn't though. Paranoia was no stranger to Reid- whether from hereditary origins or from lessons learned in his job, he was questioning, inquisitive. Nothing was taken at face value, nothing was neglected of investigation. Hotch would have proud, to know the way Reid's mind wearily regarded the world and the people within it. Even if he himself and his honesty was in question.

Because, even though Hotch said he knew Reid was strong and did not thing him cowardly, a little voice in the back of his mind pitched an inner monologue, voicing what Hotch would not. And before he even knew what he was doing, before he was even aware of the way his mouth moved and the sounds coming from his throat, he said his thoughts.

"Say it," he said, in the same hard and snapping tone from before. Hotch looked at him, his eyes narrowing and his eyebrows sinking in curiosity. "Say what you're thinking."

Finding a response, Hotch said, "I'm not thinking anything in contradiction if that's what you mean, Reid."

"Liar. Even if you don't mean to, there's a part of you that's saying it, saying I was weak to get into this situation in the first place. That if I was stronger like you and Morgan, this wouldn't have happened," Reid counted, his Omega traits nowhere in sight as he called his superior on the spot, demanded him to say what he couldn't, claiming him a liar.

"Reid, of course I don't think that. No one would have been prepared to deal with Wright. Besides, there's nothing wrong with being physically weak, all that matters is that your mental strength-"

Reid cut him off, a sudden, wry chuckle interrupting him and making him lean farther back, as though now frightened by the invalid genius. But when Reid settled down, he shook his head and explained, "Did you really just say someone who had a Psychotic Break is strong mentally? Really, Hotch, if you're going to lie, don't make it so obvious." He didn't mean to sound so venomous. He wasn't even sure why he was attacking the man so- perhaps living and relying so heavily on statistics had finally made him break, finally made him give him to every emotion and impulse that struck him and act on whim. Regardless, Hotch had straightened himself, hovering over Reid impressively as he gripped onto the arms of his chair and began to speak, low and slowly.

"I saw the reports, Reid. I read everything about your childhood." At this, Reid stiffened and paled even more so, his mouth opening as though to defend himself and argue with the invasion of privacy, but Hotch quickly continued, adding, "I know what you went through, at home, and at school. And I know what you went through with Wright and Varney."

He paused, watching as Reid's shoulders raised and encased his neck, his back arching as he fell into himself, letting his head fall and his chin tap his chest. The slight tremor of his body- shaking hands that propped him up, shivering spinal column- combined with the way he tried to shrink, to disappear, displayed his discomfort for the world. With a twinge of regret, Hotch knew he was remembering. He also knew that he would not be able to go through what Reid was going through, that the sturdy and stoic man could not handle the pain and violation that this young genius was reliving. Who was stronger: the one who shook at painful memories, or the one who pushed them away?

Letting his voice soften, a rarity, he knew, Hotch said, "What you've survived is what makes you strong, Reid. The more traumas you live through, the stronger you are. And you are by for one of the strongest men I've ever known. No hidden meanings, no contradictions, nothing to second guess. Because I mean it." Reid looked at him with the finality of his words, his eyes large and...light. For the first time since the ordeal began and Reid was found, Hotch could see his eyes as they were, as they used to be. Dark, oppressive clouds lifting, his hazel eyes no longer as muddy as realization to his words sank in.

"But I got captured-"

"And you survived."

"I let him break me."

"You let yourself be put back together."

Reid swallowed, knowing that Hotch would have a counter to everything he said. But wasn't there truth to his words? Didn't he survive the week of torture, even if he did lose himself? Didn't he regain his mind, eventually, when many doctors speculated he never would?

Voices were heard from the down the hall, familiar sounds of his teammates as they approached his room. Leaning forward and whispering, Hotch said, "There is no sense in giving up now when you've conquered so much." He settled back in his chair just as the door opened and the group of five entered, surprised to see that Reid had woken up.

And Reid was surprised himself, surprised the Hotch had offered such comfort and, more importantly, that he found that it had worked. There was a new, reawakened sense of life, a sudden relief to his aching and lethargic limbs. He was right. He _was_ strong, wasn't he? Surviving so much, overcoming so much.

"How was lunch?" Hotch asked nonchalantly, as though he hadn't invoked an epiphany within the youngest resident of the room.

"It was alright. The sushi wasn't as good as I would have hoped," JJ said with a shrug as she looked to Reid and smiled, pulling up a to-go bag and giving him a begging look. "I know you haven't been up to eating, but we got you something just in case. Want to try it?"

It was to everyone's delighted surprise that the ghost of a smile appeared on Reid's face as he reached out, thanking them for the food before slowly beginning to eat the sushi.

xXx

Garcia was the first to hug Reid goodbye, running forward and politely shoving through the others before wrapping her arms around his slim form and, if not for his height, would have gladly picked him up in her enthusiasm. She nearly pulled back with a whimper when she felt him tense and cringe at the touch, but then she felt his arms wrap around her waist, returning the gesture, though with not nearly the same amount of gusto. Her heart tugged at the effort he gave in hugging her, knowing how difficult it must be.

"I love you, Reid," she whispered, letting her lips hover over his cheek for a small second before lightly and slowly pressing them down to his skin, leaving behind dark red stains. Pulling away, she held him at arm's length, and pushed her lower lip out as she forced a smile through thin trails of tears. "I expect to see you back at the Bullpen telling us useless facts any day now!"

Smiling, Reid said, "I hope so."

A hand clapped on his shoulder and he looked up to see Hotch. "Your space will be available, if you want it and if you're ready, of course," he said. _'If I pass the psych evaluation, you mean?'_ Reid thought to himself. But despite the bitter correction, he smiled nonetheless at the prospect of returning someday- maybe not tomorrow, or in the coming months, but eventually- to his family and the only job he ever felt confident and needed in.

Emily stepped forward and offered Reid her own hug, one not nearly as long or bone crushing as Garcia's, but all the same heartbreaking as she kissed his cheek as well, chuckling to herself at the lip stick mark.

"Hopefully we'll be able to see you soon," she said, and he nodded before turning to Rossi, who smiled, awkwardly, balancing his weight between his feet.

Opening his mouth as if to say something, and then snapping it shut as though deciding better, Rossi nodded before striding towards the door, causing Reid to smirk. Despite the solemn and serious nature of his friends' leave, he found himself wondering if perhaps the real reason Rossi possessed a handful of ex-wives was because of his inability to properly communicate. But the logical part of his mind had managed to keep that thought to himself, and to himself only. Rossi would not appreciate the notion nearly as much as he did.

_'Still, wouldn't hurt to say a word or two,'_ he thought with chuckle as he turned to the last team member to say good-bye, JJ. But her gaze was not at him, but at the floor, her golden curtains of hair shielding her face from view as she absentmindedly picked at her nails as though they were the most interesting thing in the world.

Clearing his throat which suddenly felt uncomfortably closed in, he turned to Hotch, pushing the hurt he felt from her obvious rejection away from his mind. Did he really expect any different?

"Alright, you guys ready?" Hotch asked, his answer given in the form of half-hearted nods and somber replies. Looking back to Reid, Hotch lowered his head but allowed his gaze to raise, looking directly into Reid's once more and igniting the paranoid ideas that he was reading his very mind. Despite the unsettling flurry he felt in the pit of his stomach, the sudden blockading of his most private and incriminating thoughts, he continued to meet Hotch's gaze. "Remember what I told you, Reid. Spencer," Hotch said, the sound of the genius's given name sounding foreign on his lips.

But he nodded nonetheless, momentarily confused. They were on a first name basis now?

He was startled from his musings by the last minute goodbyes and the shuffling of his teammates leaving, slowly and reluctantly.

He rose a hand and weakly waved, the familiar feeling of dread once more forming like a weight in his gut, pulling his entire body down and pinning him to the floor. Rivets of the emotion, of the urge to reach out and grab onto Hotch, Garcia, Emily and even Rossi pounded in his veins, the sound of it overwhelming as it crashed against the curved capillary walls. They were leaving, again. Just like they did in Phoenicia, just like they did at the hospital, just like they were doing now, and just like they would again.

_'No!'_ he reprimanded himself, involuntarily shaking his head. They wouldn't leave him, not intentionally. They valued him, respected him. Loved him, even. They would never leave him, not like that. Would they?

He swallowed the question, deciding the anxiety it created was not worth it, and realized that he had passed the goodbyes in a catatonic daze; he was alone. The door was slowly inching towards its frame, its progress unsubstantial and remnant of the retreating team, his family.

His knees finally giving into the weight that buried into his abdomen, he slumped down to the floor, his forehead pressing into his folded arms.

For anyone who ever claimed that silence and emptiness burdened no noise, made no audio presence, they were wrong. And Reid had realized this, in that very moment, as he was left in a room void of life with the exception of himself, and all too keen to the noises that could be heard. The symphony of silence, the sound of being alone. Like a poltergeist that crept out into the clear room and altered the world when no mortal soul was there to bear witness, the quiet filtered in the room.

The sound of his blood, hot in his veins, roaring past his ears.

The sound of the autumn wind as it crawled in through the cracked window, slithering past the holes of the cage and whistling against the metal.

The distant noise of machinery, humming in the nurses' station.

The crunching of dead leaves from the outside world- how isolated he seemed!

He had forgotten how the sun warmed his skin, how the breeze chilled it. He could no longer recall how it felt to breathe in cold, fresh air into his lungs, or huff it out and see it materialize in front of him as the upper part of his lip heated with the exhalation. What did it feel like to walk over leaves and hear the satisfying crinkle and crumble of them against the ground and the soles of his feet? What was the sound gravel made as it crunched beneath his weight, grinding against other rocks and pebbles?

He felt so disconnected, so despondent from the world. Like he no longer belonged, an alien amongst the citizens. Was it because it had been nearly four months since he last stepped out into the world, or was it because of the depression, the aftermath? He didn't know.

With startling clarity, he suddenly knew that all of the people he worked with, all of the "emotionally disturbed" cases he studied were right. He didn't know what it was like, he couldn't understand their plights. There was a drastic difference between being an outside observer of the mentally unstable, and being the mentally unstable. This feeling, this depersonalization, wasn't something that could be read about- not truly. It was something that was unnamed, without a face, until the very moment it was experienced. A text could never describe it, never put it into words.

He was in unexplored territories, a frontier where books meant nothing- they were just fanciful proses. How would he know what to do, how to act? His memory which had once been so reliable failed him. As he struggled to recall the treatments and therapies used in dealing with cases such as his, the words he had seen in the text on how to approach it twisted. The letters jumbled, fell apart. The solution to his problems, which he at any other time could've pulled out of his filing cabinet and held in his palm, turned to dust and he was utterly and completely useless.

"No," he whispered, his head trembling in his arms. He had to rely on others, on therapists and strangers to work him through this. He was dependent now. Just like the criminals he locked away on a a near daily basis. Would he be understood, would he be heard? He wanted to say yes, knowing his own perception of the therapy. But this was new, unknown. Something he had hoped to never experiment with.

Why were all of his steadily laid plans falling apart at his feet?

"Spence?"

Jumping, he looked up at the voice and felt his face melt and soften as he looked directly into JJ's clear blue eyes. How long had she been there? Had she been standing there the whole time he broke down? How bad was his breakdown? He had spent the entirety of it so reserved in his mind that he had not processed how he acted outwardly. Was she frightened of him? Pitying him?

His eyes dropped at the words. Did she pity him? Would she always look down at him with that patronizing emotion, the one he had ruefully seen in Garcia and Morgan's eyes? Chancing another, searching look, he rose his eyes once more and met hers, shifting them as he sought to discern the emotion he saw in them.

Was that...guilt? Or was he just misreading it?

"Why...why are you still here?" he asked.

She licked her lips, letting her gaze falter before finally settling it on the floor. "I um...wanted to talk to you, in person, before I go," she said, clearing her throat softly as Reid straightened himself, his interest suddenly piqued. What did she need to say?

Instinctively pulling his arms across his torso as though it would tame the rapid butterflies fluttering within it, he asked, "What did you want to talk about?" Why did his voice have to squeak so much? Why couldn't he be more like Morgan, collected and in control even around women?

Biting her lip as she turned her eyes back to his, she said, "I wanted to a...apologize."

Reid's brows pulled downward as he cocked his head to the side slightly, a questioning look about his face. "Apologize? For what? You didn't do anything wrong," he said, feeling his words trail off as she began shaking her head.

"No, no I did. I..."

"JJ? What is it?"

She swallowed hard as she averted her gaze once more. "I...I told him what you were like." Her voice was soft and Reid found himself straining his ears to hear her, leaning in closer to her. He furrowed his eyebrows as his lips parted. Told him...who was _him_?

"I don't understand-" he started, but was interrupted when she stood up, raising off her haunches as she shook her head, her blonde locks whipping around her face.

"I told _Andrew_ what you were like! He asked me about your personality and I...I answered him! In the hospital, I said _everything! _I basically let him know that you fit his victimology perfectly! It's my fault he went for you!" She was hysterical, her voice high and frenzied as she flailed her arms around her face, tears rolling slowly down the slopes of her cheeks. Reid frowned deeply, his head pulling back to better see her.

He had known that; Andrew had alluded to it before, hadn't he?

At the time, he recalled feeling angry, betrayed. Hurt that JJ had so willingly handed information over to a stranger about him, personal accounts of his life, everything he had so carefully kept hidden. But now, this feelings seemed somehow less important, more pushed to the side with everything else that was going on.

Like JJ, crying and blaming herself for something she had no control over.

Standing on shaking legs, he stood at his full height and reached out to her, snatching her wrist as it flew through the air. Startled, she stopped and looked at him, her eyes wide and blurry behind her tears.

"Spence?" she said, her voice seeming so small.

"It's not your fault," he responded, letting his shoulders shrug slightly.

She shook her head. "No. No, it is. Because of me he went for you."

His eyes widened as he fought the sudden, ridiculous notion to laugh. It seemed entirely inappropriate, unacceptable, but he couldn't deny the fact that he had to tighten his lips together to avoid a chuckle from coming through. He must really be losing it now.

"JJ, it was because of _me _he went for me. Not because of what you said."

She swallowed. "He knew you matched his victimology because of what I said-"

"He would've found it anyway," he reasoned, letting go of her wrist and sitting down on his bed gingerly. He struggled to shove the memories away from his mind, to keep his thoughts settled on the present and the present only. It was difficult to do, images of Andrew wielding a knife before him, or the feeling of Varney's furtive fingers gripping onto his hips, but he knew, within the back of his mind, that JJ needed this. She needed to know it wasn't her fault, that Andrew was too meticulous of a killer to be persuaded from a victim so easily. She needed Reid to provide logical explanations about Andrew's profile to prove that she was not an active force in his abduction.

"He kept tabs on his patients-" he began, but was cut off by JJ's murmured and softly pressed correction.

"Victims, Spence."

He nodded stiffly, categorizing the mistake as a Freudian slip and then letting it fall to the back of his mind as he continued, "He kept tabs on them. He used whatever means necessary to get the information he needed. It's not your fault, JJ. He saw me as someone who matched the others and wanted me."

In that moment, Reid was torn between two reactions. One reaction was the level-headed one, the one the would comfort JJ, use his beloved facts to support his theory and to calm her worries. And the other reaction was screaming at nothing, begging for him to lash out, to curl into himself, to squeeze his head as if he could squeeze the memories out of his orifices. Throughout the weekend his team had been here, he had pushed all memories from his mind, let the week in Hell be forgotten- or as best forgotten as he could manage.

He knew the repercussions of that.

He knew the instant his team was gone- the second he no longer had a reason to keep his cool- they would push forward, be revisited once more. He had hardly had time to go over the new revelation of what had occurred with Varney. What would happen when JJ, the last of his visitors, turned to leave him? Would he crumple to the ground, despairing over everything he had learned? Would he need to be restrained again after suffering from a horrifying flashback? Would he have nightmares, more pronounced and with a new name and face to the monsters that lurked in his sleep?

"I should probably get going, the team's waiting for me," JJ said, forcing a shaking smile to her face as she looked at Reid.

Panic flooded him. He fantasized her leaving, the door closing behind her and slamming shut just as he fell over, crying, screaming, fighting off invisible hands. Hands that grabbed at his clothes, pushing them up. Hands that bruised his hips and thighs. Hands that pulled him down. He couldn't let the demons get to him, he needed them to stay away.

"Don't go!" he called out desperately, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her flush against his chest. She couldn't leave him. If she left, the monsters would come out. They would get him. She needed to stay.

"Spence!" she called out, worried and frightened as she held him close. But he didn't hear her. He couldn't. All he could hear were disembodied voices, slicing through the air and curdling his blood.

_'Why did you shoot him in the chest, of all places?'_

_'Why does it matter anyway? He seems to have too much fight in him to be worth it. Why not find a different-'_

_'Because Spencer is _perfect_!'_

_'You're in a lot of trouble, Spencer.'_

_'This is for your own good.'_

_'No! No! Please don't!'_

That was his own voice, ringing in his mind, followed by a ghostly echo that made his ears throb, booming with his own calls. The world was dissipating around him, the feeling of JJ's hands gripping his shoulder's unsubstantial as she shook him, trying to bring him back. But he was lost in the flurry of images that rolled like a wave through him.

She was screaming, calling for help. But her voice melted away, turning into the _clinking_ and _clanking_ of metal against metal as his cuffs became a melody to what Varney did.

xXx

**Author's Note:**** I'm sooooo sorry! I've been so busy lately, but hopefully the next chapter will be posted far sooner! **

**Thanks to all who have reviewed and favorited (Yay for making up words!) and alerted this story! It's extremely appreciated! **


	28. Chapter 28

**Disclaimer:****Criminal Minds and all its associated characters are property to CBS and no profit is being made from this story.**

**Chapter 28: Beyond the Imperfections**

_'Being happy doesn't mean that everything is perfect. It means that you've decided to look beyond the imperfections.' -Unknown_

When Reid awoke, he felt light, like his entire body was filled with cotton instead of muscles and bones. His head, heavy with the grogginess of sleep, fell over to the side, his eyes still closed as he let out a small whimper. What happened? He felt so limp, so disconnected from his body- so drugged.

Was that it? Had he been sedated? He couldn't remember what happened, what had led to sedation being an option.

Slowly, he opened his eyes, feeling like his lids were glued shut together as he pried them open and blinked, looking around the dark room.

The _very_ dark room.

Heavy, inky shadows blanketed the walls and ceiling, shrouding him in darkness. Where was his nightlight? Morgan and the nurses had _always_ ensured that the device was turned on, a small, golden orb of light in the corner. But it wasn't on. It wasn't there.

There was nothing but darkness, darkness that was suffocating him, pressing down on his chest. Sitting like an immovable weight on his lungs, he was unable to breathe. Panicking, he tried to rise up to a sitting position, only to be yanked back down to the mattress with a _humph. _His eyes widened as he pulled his wrists up as far as the restraints would go, twisting them frantically in the leather straps.

He was bound to the bed, much like he had been in Andrew's care.

"No," he murmured, trying once more to pull himself up, only to inevitably snap back down, his head bouncing forward before pillowing into the bed. He pulled his knees upward, thankful to find his ankles were not tied down as well, and planted his feet firmly into the mattress as he attempted to propel himself up again, his hips now rising with the action.

But, like before, he fell back down, his knees wobbly with the exertion. Panting heavily, he twisted his body to the side, the restraints holding his wrists back as he tried fruitlessly to break the leather cuffs free of the metal bar.

A sound, much like a wounded animal, escaped his lips as he twisted to the other side, trying his luck with the other set of cuffs. He was trapped, though, kept to the bed and unable to break free as sweat began to slide down his forehead, matting his hair.

What had happened?

Why was he being restrained?

_'What if I never left Andrew's care, and everything was just a dream?'_ his inner voice said before he could stop himself, creating the overwhelming feeling of panic surge through him, increasing his efforts to get out of the bindings.

His body rose and fell from the bed, the restraints rubbing painfully against his wrists as he contorted himself into awkward positions, trying to loosen the give the bindings had on him. He needed to get out. He couldn't stay here. What if _here_ was still with Andrew? What if he had never left and had only succumbed to an in depth dream, fantasizing all of it?

"No, no, no," he ground out as he tried to roll onto his stomach, wincing as his arm bent back painfully behind him. The joints of his shoulders were on fire, the muscles stretching to unbearable limits as he tested the boundaries of his restraints. His wrists and arms burned in protest as he contorted himself again and again, trying with all his might to break free.

But the leather was strong and sturdy, and held his wrists in place despite his near spastic efforts to break loose. He was trapped. He couldn't get out. Stuck, stuck like an caged animal in wait for the slaughter.

"No!" he hollered, feeling his cheeks heat with rage and fear. It wasn't a dream! He had been rescued! He knew it! But the restraints digging into his skin told him otherwise, made his mind reel with the possibility that he was in fact still with Andrew. That he had never left.

"NONONONO!" he roared, his throat burning as the noise peeled through, scratching the insides with its intensity. But he continued to yell, rising and flopping back down to the mattress, ignoring the searing pain in his shoulders as he bent himself too far in the wrong direction against the bindings.

_'This can't be happening,'_ his mind whispered through the external screaming, fear bubbling in his skin and blood. _'I can't be back there. I can't. I can't."_

The door flew open, causing his eyes to widen into large saucers as he stilled his body instantly, hoping that if he didn't move, whoever it was who came in would leave him alone. Light filtered in through the hall as a shadowy figure stepped inside the room, and Reid's mind was screaming once more, mentally shaking him as it yelled out its suspicions.

_'Andrew! It's Andrew! You made too much noise and now he's coming to punish you!'_ his inner voice chided, and he paled with the thought. He didn't care if being rescued was a dream, by this point. He just wished he could go back to it.

But when the figure reached out to the wall and flicked a light switch, bathing the room in a bright and harsh fluorescent glow, Reid's body slumped to the mattress in relief.

It was a doctor- a _real_ doctor. And he was in a hospital room, safely stored away from Andrew and the wandering hands that plagued him.

As the doctor approached and the adrenaline drained from his body, he suddenly became all too aware of the pain and stress he had just submitted himself to. His shoulders throbbed from the strain of stretching his arms out and against the restraints and his wrists ached inside the leather straps. His lower back throbbed dully and his knees burned slightly from having twisted his legs in his search for better momentum. A thick sheet of sweat coated his face and chest, making his tee shirt stick to the tacky substance and his hair clump together into stringy masses. His entire body seemed to be heated over a fire and he couldn't help but spread his limbs out away from him to prevent them from creating even more heat. His breath puffed out from his lungs as the doctor stood by the side of his bed, examining him slowly.

"Spencer? What happened? What's wrong?"

Reid's eyes narrowed slightly as he studied the doctor, trying to decide if he recognized him or not. It wasn't a doctor that he had personally worked with, but one that he had seen around several times, and knew to be working the case of two other patients on the ward. He was young, and had always seemed rather quiet for a doctor, but had never appeared mean or miserable like some of the nurses or orderlies appeared to be. What was his name, again?

"Spencer? My name is Dr. Garrison, now can you tell me what happened?" he asked, his hazel eyes glowing in patronizing concern. Reid was getting very sick of seeing that emotion directed to him, that was for sure.

Swallowing something that seemed rather large and uncomfortable, he sat up more in the bed and looked about the unrecognizable room. Where was he?

"I...the room," he said, too distracted by the foreign surroundings to answer his questions.

Dr. Garrison glanced at him oddly for several seconds before he nodded in understanding. "You're in the quiet room, Spencer. You suffered from a rather..." he struggled to find the proper wording "traumatic flashback and we were forced to restrain you, but the beds in the normal rooms don't have the restraints."

"Why did you need to restrain me?" Reid asked, hating that he needed to rely on someone he barely knew in order to get answers. But he was having such a hard time remembering everything- the last thing he recalled was JJ saying good-bye.

"You were putting up quite a fight. One that required two of our toughest orderlies and your agent friend to hold you down," Dr. Garrison said, then grinned widely. "It was actually really impressive. They were big guys."

Reid grimaced. The one time he actually managed to have physical prowess and he couldn't even remember it? Hopefully, he would at least be able to use this against Morgan whenever he made a jeer at him.

"Anyway," the doctor continued as his grin faded. "You were fighting quite a bit and at one point you ran into the wall. Hit your head pretty hard against it, and so we had to restrain you to make sure that you wouldn't be able to hurt yourself anymore."

"I didn't do it on purpose," Reid said, immediately feeling the need to defend himself. Whether or not it was true, he wasn't entirely sure. But he would never intentionally harm himself. And this doctor needed to understand that.

"We know, but it was just a precautionary method."

Reid nodded. Then, looking about the room once more, he asked, "The light...why was it off?"

The doctor narrowed his eyes at him, as though trying to find some double meaning to his words. But when none could be found, he shrugged and said, "I'm not entirely sure what you mean."

"The lights. They need to be on," he answered, shifting his eyes to the side. He really didn't feel quite like explaining his fear of the dark to this doctor, having learned early on that not most people accepted his phobia without mocking him.

Yet the doctor just pursed his lips and then looked upwards before saying, "I'm sorry. I'll talk to the night nurses and make sure that they read a patient's file more carefully before enacting any form of treatment." Reid smiled, grateful that he needn't explain anything. Suddenly, Dr. Garrison jumped, as though forcibly reminded of something and then looked at Reid, a guilty look on his face. "I'm sorry! Let me get you out of the restraints!"

Fumbling around in his coat pockets, he finally produced a key ring and began quickly and clumsily flipping through it, accidentally letting it slip through his fingers several times. Reid felt his lips being pulled upward into a smile as he realized that this doctor wasn't exactly the most graceful.

After the keys slipped from his fingers for the sixth time, he finally found the right one and, with a quiet _'yes!'_ of triumph, he slipped the key into the lock of the restraint that held his left hand down and turned it. A click resounded through the room as the gears turned and the tightness around Reid's wrist loosened. With a grateful sigh, he pulled his wrist into his chest as Dr. Garrison walked around the bed and began working on the other cuff.

As he jammed the key into the lock, Reid licked his lips and asked, "My team...did they leave?"

The man looked up at him and, offering a sad smile, nodded as he said, "Yes, they did. They tried to stay longer, but because they were only given the weekend off they were called in on a case." Reid's eyes fell down to the floor then as he pulled his right, newly freed wrist into his chest as well, rubbing it gently. But his hand was slowly pulled back as Dr. Garrison held it softly in his own, examining his wrist.

"You chafed the skin pretty badly, and managed to cut yourself as well. Superficial, though. Nothing too bad," he said, though his voice was quiet and low as if he were speaking to himself. "If you come with me, I'll clean this up for you and then you can go back to your own room."

Reid nodded numbly as he sat up, immediately regretting his earlier struggle as his body creaked in pain. At the time it had seemed like a sensible reaction, like a real possibility that he might've still been in the hands of that monster. But now he felt foolish and his sore limbs only strengthened this feeling.

Slipping off of the bed, he padded across the floor to join the doctor by the door before leaving the small and secluded room behind, the light being switched off as they went.

_'I've never seen the halls so empty,'_ Reid thought to himself as he looked around the ward corridor. Only two nurses sat behind the station, the usual hum of electronics much quieter as the activity of early morning settled down. What time was it anyway? It was about seven when his team was preparing to leave, and the sedative could last anywhere from six to ten hours. Shooting a glance at the analog clock on the wall behind the station, he gaped at the time. Four in the morning.

Had he really been out for that long?

"I guess you could say my primary purpose here is the emergency doctor," Dr. Garrison said, smirking as he noticed the way Reid's mouth hung open as they passed the clock. "I'm the one they'll call in for immediate action if the patient's assigned doctor is off the clock or unavailable."

"Aren't you the treating doctor to some patients?"

He nodded. "Not nearly as many as the other doctor's though."

"I guess that makes sense," Reid mumbled, rubbing his wrists some more. It seemed that the more time that passed, the more the cuts and shallow ligature marks stung. He really needed to stop overreacting...

"In here," the doctor said as he held a door open for Reid, leading him into the nurse's room. He had been in here several times since his stay on the trauma ward, his nearly healed wounds requiring constant surveillance for infections and proper healing. Lifting himself up onto the examination table, he watched as Dr. Garrison flew around the room to collect various medical supplies.

"If you don't mind me asking...what about the lights being off made you panic so much?"

Reid looked up as his hand was pulled away from him once more, the palm splayed open to the ceiling as the doctor began to gently rub a damp cloth over the area, cleansing it. As his skin was pulled in varying directions, he bit his lip in thought, debating the question. Should he tell the doctor the truth? That he panicked because he had experienced another flashback? While he knew full well that honesty was the surest route to recovery, he couldn't help but feel a twinge of fear as he thought of something else: would they consider him to be regressing if he was suffering from flashbacks?

_Was_ he regressing?

It would be so easy to lie and get it over with, to not be given a special note saying that he needed to be given 'extra supervision.' But the psychologist in him knew better. And so, with a shuddering breath, he said, "I thought I was back with Andrew. The restraints and the dark...that was how he kept me."

The dabbing of the cloth stopped as Dr. Garrison looked up at him, his eyes blinking curiously. Slowly, he began his tender care of the cut as he turned back to Reid's wrist, saying, "I'll speak to the nurses and your doctor about this. Maybe we can find an alternative for you." Switching hands to repeat the procedure on the other wrist, he added, "You're safe here, as I'm sure you know. Besides, I met your team earlier, and they wouldn't let any danger come to you."

"If that were true, than I wouldn't be here."

Reid stilled, his mouth slacking open.

Did he really just say that aloud? Did he really think that?

Was that really his voice? It sounded so unfamiliar, laced with so much venom.

He looked up to the doctor, who had stopped his methodical cleansing to glance up in surprise at the young patient. He did say it aloud, didn't he? Why else would he be given that look?

"I...I don't know why I said that..." he murmured, his lips twitching as he spoke. "I know it's not their fault, I-"

"No you don't," the doctor responded, cutting him off as he let Reid's hand fall back into his lap, heading to grab antibacterial ointment and application pads.

Reid felt himself still as he leaned back, resting his weight on the balls of his palm. Had he really insinuated that Reid did blame his team? Infuriated, he snapped his hand back just as the doctor reached for it and yelled, "It isn't their fault and I know it!"

Dr. Garrison sighed. "Than why did you say what you said?"

"It was just a Freudian slip..."

"Spencer," he started, reaching out for Reid's hand once more and smiling when he didn't pull back, gently applying the ointment as he went on. "I read your file. You're too smart not to know what a Freudian slip is and misuse it."

Before he knew it, Reid was doing the one thing he seemed incapable of not doing- spouting our remotely relevant facts.

"Freudian slips- named after Psychoanalyst Sigmund Freud- is based on his theory of the unconscious mind harboring the most traumatic memories and most secret and unspoken desires and wishes. The slip is when the unconscious mind interferes in speech or thought and misinterprets a word or action, or speaks the wrong word. It is believed that when someone has a Freudian slip that they are voicing what not even they themselves are aware of they're feeling and wanting," he flatly answered, the counter coming quickly and without permission from his mind. It seemed as if his thoughts sometimes connected directly to his mouth, passing by the part of his brain that filtered out what he did and didn't- needed and did not need- to say.

Dr. Garrison nodded as he finished cleaning his right wrist, applying a thin layer of gauze to it. "Exactly."

"I don't think it's their fault..." Reid said, rather pathetically, as he tried to defend what not even he believed anymore. Why else would he say that, if he didn't believe it? If not in the forefront of his mind, he still had to have thought it to say it. But for some reason, he was unable to let the doctor believe he was capable of thinking those blaming thoughts. He didn't want him to know that he harbored animosity to any of his teammates.

But he did.

"You should talk to them about it. Your teammates, I mean."

Reid shook his head, immediately dismissing the idea. "I can't. I know they already blame themselves. I can't let them think I blame them, too," he answered as the doctor then went on to his other wrist, applying the same antibacterial ointment to it. "It will just make everything worse."

"How different is it?"

Confused by the sudden, ambiguous question, Reid furrowed his brows and twisted his lips as he looked up to the doctor, trying to figure out what he was inquiring to. But after a minute or so passed and the gauze was firmly wrapped around both his wrists, he finally, in exasperation, asked, "How different is _what_?"

"Being a patient to being the doctor," he said simply, striding over to the sink to wash his hands despite having worn latex gloves throughout the whole procedure. Before Reid could retort, he said, "Before, you saw disorders and treatment through one scope- the doctor wanting to help. Now, you see it through a different scope- the patient wanting help but not knowing how."

He opened his mouth to (quite rudely, if he were being honest with himself) ask the doctor what exactly that had to do with his predicament when the doctor once more cut him off and said, "If you were working a case and came across someone who showed the potential signs for becoming a criminal in later life, due to withholding anger, what would you advise that someone to do?"

Biting his lip as he thought the scenario over, he said, "Alright, alright. I get it. I'd advise that someone to try to forgive those who he feels wronged him and talk it out, if not to the person of anger than a licensed therapist. But, I'm not someone showing potential signs of criminal behavior." He knew that didn't matter, so why did he say that? He knew that it was just a thinly veiled allegory to his situation and that a mentally disordered criminal was nothing more than a violent mentally disordered patient. So why did he try to act like he didn't think he and the fictional criminal were the same?

Dr. Garrison, after cleaning up the remaining mess that had been made, opened the door once more for Reid and gesture for him to hop from table. Hesitantly, he obliged, walking through the framing just as the doctor spoke. "You know better than that. I know you do. But the only way you can truly get better is to confront the anger and betrayal you feel. If you like, we can set up meetings where your team can come in- together, or individual- and you can talk to them about it with your therapist." At his skeptical look, he said, "It will help you get better...don't you want to get better?"

Of all the questions he had been asked since he was rescued, _that_ was the one he now came to despise the most. Of course he wanted to get better! Why wouldn't he? There were a couple of occasions where, upon being asked that question, he had to resist the impulse to say, _"Why, no, not at all! I've actually grown quite accustomed to hating myself and the world I live in. Residing in a hospital for the rest of my godforsaken life, fearing the past and, above all, hands sounds like a splendid idea! Now, if you don't mind I'm going to go into my room and commence the next thing I have written on my schedule- sulk, from two in the afternoon to three in the afternoon. Ta-ta!"_

_'What a ridiculous question,'_ he thought, nearly scoffing outwardly. Yet, he knew the reason why doctor's asked this: sometimes, when someone lived too long with a bad habit, such as drug use or self mutilation, they form an attachment to the action. And then, when they need to let go of the habit, they were unable to. Not because they don't want to, but because it is comforting- something that they are familiar with and, ironically, feel almost safe with.

No one wanted to be sick or unhappy, it was a matter of whether or not they willing to venture into the unknown in order to no longer be sick or happy.

"I'm getting sick of that question," he mumbled under his breath as they turned the corner in the hall, pass the nurses' station, to get to his room. Clearing his throat awkwardly and saying louder for the doctor to hear, he said, "Yes, I do want to get better. But I don't know if I can talk to them. Not about that, at least."

They reached his room, the door left open and the lights turned off. However, the small glow of the nightlight could be seen in the corner.

"Well, think it over and when you have an answer, leave me a message with a nurse. She'll get it to me and I'll see what I can set up for you, if you'd like," he said, stepping aside as Reid walked through and entered the room, sitting down on his bed softly as he looked up to Dr. Garrison.

"Okay. Thank you," he said, just as the man turned to leave. When his door frame was empty of any figure, he sighed and lied down on the mattress, not even bothering to put the quilt that sat in a folded pile at the foot of his bed over him. He had only said thanks for politeness sake, of course. He had no intention of making any of his teammates feel more guilt than what was necessary. They didn't need that.

Even though, and he would never admit it aloud, a small part of him thought they deserved all the guilt in the world.

xXx

_ONE MONTH LATER..._

"Hey, Reid man, get up," a voice pervaded through Reid's dream, reaching out to him and slowly pulling him back to world of the waking. Groaning and rolling onto his stomach, he pressed his head deeper into his pillow and tried to hold onto the pleasant dream he was having.

A sigh followed this action. "Sleeping Beauty, come on I got a surprise for you!"

The dream now fully gone and already forgotten- as even his enhanced memory was no match for the will of his own mind- Reid gave into the demanding voice and opened a single eye, rolling it at Morgan.

"Is the surprise for you to leave me alone?" he mumbled, wanting to curl up again and go back to sleep. He was beginning to think that his dosage of Seroquel was just a little too high, as he slept most of the day away, but he was not entirely willing to tell the doctor this. He enjoyed sleeping as much as possible- his dreams lasted longer than reality now.

Except, of course, when Morgan grew impatient and wanted his company.

"Ha, funny, man," the agent said as he folded his arms over his chest and shrugged extravagantly. "Fine then. I just thought that since Dr. Greene gave you clearance to go outside you might want to join me on a walk, but if you real-"

Morgan never finished his sentence as Reid barreled upwards, sitting up so quickly on his bed Morgan nearly fell over.

"He said that? I can go out?" he asked intrepidly, as though it was too good to be true. It was, really. Five months locked inside. Five months away from the world- the real world. The outside world, as it was intended.

He barely waited for Morgan to finish his nod before sliding down onto the floor and opening the drawers that were built into his bed, pushing clothing aside to find something to wear. _'I hardly doubt __this will keep me warm,'_ he thought, looking disparagingly at his thin nightshirt and worn flannel bottoms.

"It's not too cold. Jeans and a sweater and you should be fine," Morgan said, smirking as he walked to the hall. "I'll be waiting for you out here." Reid waved him off, eliciting a chuckled from the man as he closed the door behind him, shaking his head.

He knew that Reid wouldn't turn down the option to go outside. Hell, anyone would want to go outside after five months cooped up. But as Morgan's thoughts turned to what he had planned to talk about during the walk, his smile faded instantly as his stomach began to wretch and twist uncomfortably. Sighing softly, he rested his shoulders and head against the wall, his eyes closing against the glaring lights above him.

However, the vibration of his phone at his side made him groan as he reached for it, flipping it up and opening the message from Hotch.

_'Don't forget to tell him the news. He needs to know what's happening, and have his say in what to do.'_

Rolling his eyes, he replied to the message curtly and professionally before jamming the device back into his pocket and resuming his leisurely position. Why did he even need to ask Reid what he wanted to do? He knew the kid well enough to know what he would want to do.

_'Too stubborn to do what's best for him,'_ he thought. But what was best for Reid? He hadn't been very open- to Morgan or the doctors- so he had no idea what was going on in the genius's mind. He just hoped that Reid would consider all the consequences before answering.

The door opened and Reid stepped through, smiling excitedly as he started to walk down the hall, motioning for Morgan to follow.

"Come on, I have group at two," he explained, turning the corner as he continued to stride quickly to the set of double doors that would lead them to freedom- to the outside.

Morgan laughed. "Reid, that gives us two hours."

"Two hours doesn't make up for four months, Morgan," he said lightheartedly, but Morgan felt his stomach tug violently at the words. Was that meant to sound as scathing as it seemed, or was that just his perception?

The walk from the ward and through the lobby seemed to be too long for Reid, who walked at such a quick pace despite his slight limp that Morgan was surprised that he hadn't started to pant or at least breathe heavily. But when they walked down the steps leading into the doors that stood between them and the outside- Reid taking them two at a time- he finally paused, turning to Morgan with what was decidedly the widest grin he had possessed in nearly half a year.

Morgan strode past him, opening the door and gesturing outside as the cold air blew in, crumpled and dead leaves coming in with it. "Geniuses first," he said with a chuckled as Reid happily walked through.

He inhaled sharply, the breath colder and fresher than his lungs were used to. They burned with the new sensation and seemed to expand painfully in his ribcage, the wind searing the inside of his nostrils and biting his nose. But he didn't care in the least. In fact, he welcomed it. It felt so natural, so fresh and new and needed. His hair, which had grown another inch and had now managed to grow into full ringlets, was tossed back in the breeze, his exposed ears turning red and stinging with cold.

Watery hazel eyes closed as he let himself take it in- one sense at a time.

The smell...

It was crisp and clean, a pure aroma saturated with the natural scents of cut grass, decaying leaves and frozen dirt. While he had never been one for the study of aromatherapy, nor was he someone who had a particular affinity towards pleasant smells- a scent was a scent, nothing more- he had decided that nothing could ever compare to the wonderful things he was smelling right now.

The feel...

Stooping over, he let his bare, slowly numbing fingers run over the frost-bitten grass, feeling each chilled and dying blades individually as he internalized the feeling. When the tips of his fingers met something thinner and more delicate, he smiled, knowing he had stumbled upon the leaf.

The ridge were dry and leathery, crinkling softly under the pad of his thumb as he traced the curves of the leaf lightly, feeling the way it had bent into itself. His fingers followed the veins, carefully examining each and ever hole that had damaged it.

The sound...

Wind rushing through empty trees, whistling in his ears as leaves rolled around on the paved walkways, fluttering lightly in the breeze yet making a large wave of shuffling noise. Birds, chirping and flying overhead as the prepared for the long and strenuous journey they would make.

The sight...

Now, he opened his eyes, looking first at the leaf he was still gingerly holding. Red. The leaf was dark red, muddy with brown pigment and the veins slightly darker than the rest of it. His hand seemed to glare brightly outside, the dark red leaf- the color of a rich wine- making the whiteness even more luminescent in contrast.

Letting the leaf slip out of his hand, he turned to look around him, smiling at the multitudes of color. The sweeping hill that the Residential Treatment Center sat on was covered in golden stalks, while the courtyard he and Morgan stood in was a dying green, littered by the many leaves.

He felt Morgan move to stand beside him, and without looking at him, he said, "You know, the last time I felt like this was when I first escaped from Andrew."

Morgan furrowed his brow as he inclined his head, his eyes narrowed in intrigue. "Escaped?"

Reid finally turned to him, his lips parted and his eyebrows raised high as though he hadn't meant to let such a personal account of the week slip through his filters. But after a second of scrutinizing each other, Reid shrugged, knowing that Morgan would not simply let it be forgotten about.

"Yeah. I um...managed to get away but then Varney caught me," he answered, trying to sound nonchalant as he started walking down the path, his hands sliding into his pockets.

"Was that when he shot you?" Morgan knew he was pushing the limits- Reid was very careful to not go into too explicit of detail about his stay- but this was the first opportunity that he had been handed. He needed to at least try to get Reid to speak. Without causing flashbacks, that is.

Tentatively, Reid nodded. "I thought he was going to help me but...that was when I realized he was working with Andrew, I guess." He swallowed, trying even harder to keep the memories away. But unbidden, images of that day seemed to come to the forefront of his mind.

The wonderful feeling of dewy grass beneath his fevered feet and toes.

The smell of fresh air when compared to the sterilized basement.

The light- painful in all it's radiant glory was nonetheless a symbol of his feat.

And then...

The sound of his name being spoken in shock.

The surprised and confused look on Varney's face.

The deafening roar of the bullet as it rocketed through the barrel of the gun.

The malicious glint in Varney's eyes...

"Reid!"

He jumped, looking to Morgan in surprise. He had stopped walking, standing stock still and now behind his friend as he regarded him with a look of concern.

"Sorry. I was just...remembering..." he muttered, trying and failing to sound casual as his voice cracked and squeaked embarrassingly. Clearing his throat, he then said, "Let's just change the subject. Please?"

"Actually," Morgan said, worrying his lower lip between his between his teeth as he rubbed his head awkwardly. "I need to tell you something. About Andrew and Varney." Reid shifted his weight slowly and bit his lip as he looked past Morgan, his gaze distant.

Ducking his head, Morgan asked, "Will you be okay or should I save this for another time?"

Reid remained unmoving for a period of time, his eyes flitting about as though alternating between remembering the past and debating the question. But after a moment, he puffed out air exaggeratedly and shook his head as he slowly began to walk again, suddenly less enthused about being outside. "No, I'll be fine. What is it?" he asked, staring down at his feet as he walked.

_'Liar,'_ Morgan found himself thinking, his trained eyes looking the young patient over slowly. Reid's hazel eyes were focused on his feet, his jaw clenched and twitching with what Morgan knew was him chewing the inside of his cheeks. His mouth was pinched tightly and his head was bent down low, the loose, brown rings falling into his eyes. He wasn't fine with it, but his desire to know as much as possible about the case made him lie. He was not going to let himself become sheltered simply because he was upset. And even though Morgan was irritated that he would lie, he had to admit the admiration he felt for him right then.

Sighing, Morgan shook his head, deciding to say it and get it over with. _'It's now or never,'_ he thought, feeling a sinking weight in his gut as he said, "Their trials are coming up- they've been scheduled in two weeks for Andrew and three weeks for Varney."

"Oh," was all Reid said in his response, his gaze not straying from his feet and the ground beneath it. He was trying to act impassive, they way he would if this had been any other case but his own. If another man had been selected as the sixth victim instead of himself and the case had been solved in that manner, Reid never once leaving his team. And perhaps- in another universe, one separate from his own- that Spencer had accepted Morgan's invitation to go along with him, and Andrew had instead turned to another, more easily accessible victim. But that wasn't this universe, and Reid wasn't that Reid- the smart, careful one who didn't let his desire to prove himself or emotions get in the way of protecting himself.

"I still feel so stupid, you know," he said inattentively, his voice unwavering as though he were discussing something as casual as the weather. This time, he didn't wait for Morgan to turn to him with an inquiring look as he added, "When I was in there- the basement- I kept telling myself how stupid I was for letting it happen."

_'Aren't we chatty today, Spence?'_ he thought, wondering why exactly he was being so forthcoming wit everything. Maybe being relatively silent about his ordeal for four months was effecting him more than he knew, and his subconscious mind was screaming for someone to know what he didn't want to know himself. Or maybe the vengeful, vindictive part of him simply wanted Morgan to be kept up at night with the knowledge of what he allowed to happen fresh in his mind's eye. _'Misery loves company,'_ he mused, decidedly hating this new and revenge seeking Spencer.

"I think we all felt that way," Morgan said, rubbing his hands together as he tried to keep warm. Had it suddenly gotten colder? He was almost sure it had, his body now aware of every biting breeze and stinging wind that came his way.

Reid cocked his head to the side, letting his eyes look up at Morgan sideways. "What do you mean?"

"As much as I don't want to speak on the team's behalf, I think it's safe to say we all felt stupid, especially when we realized who his partner was." Looking at Reid to make sure that he was alright, he continued. "It was just upsetting to know that at any other time we could easily and quickly rescue any kid but the second you were captured it was like we didn't know what to do."

"Is that why it was upsetting?"

Morgan jumped, looking up at Reid with wide eyes and gaping mouth, startled with the way those words were spoken. They were bitter, taunting- shaking with barely concealed anger and raised at the edge so that they had a snapping, spitting way about them. Did he mean to sound like that, so resentful and hating or was that just Morgan's imagination?

"Reid, what do you mean?" he asked, trying to sound good-natured. But when Reid spun around on him, the inch difference in their height suddenly seeming more like a foot as he hovered over him, Morgan realized that he hadn't imagined the way those words were spoken at all. Reid's lips were no longer pinched in reminiscent trepidation, but in fury, his hazel eyes dark and stormy as he glowered at his partner. His jaw shook with both rage and from being clenched so tightly and the tendrils of hair that were visible swayed with the involuntary motion.

When he spoke, the words seemed forced, as though he wanted to yell them instead of say them, grinding them out spitefully. "Was that why it was _upsetting_? Because it was worse then your usual track record? Not because every second spent where you were sitting, safe and comfy in an office trying to figure it out, was another second I was spent screaming in pain, being tortured?"

Morgan, unable to speak from sheer shock and from being caught off guard, simply looked at Reid, his head shaking slowly from side to side. "Reid, that's not-"

"A week, Morgan! Do you know how that breaks down? Seven days. One hundred and sixty-eight hours. That means ten thousand and eighty minutes. Six hundred and four thousand, eight hundred seconds!" Reid paused, the numbers ricocheting off the enclosed buildings as he took a deep breath before taking a step closer to Morgan and shaking his head. "It took you six hundred and four thousand, eight hundred seconds to find me. Do you have any idea," a shaking breath breaking up the words as his voice quieted, visibly trembling as he continued, "how long that feels like?"

"Reid," Morgan started to speak, but stopped, realizing he didn't know what to say. How long had he felt this way? Was that why he refused to talk about how he felt, a part of him too hateful and unable to speak without blaming his friends?

But didn't Morgan deserve the blame?

Reid had turned away, letting his gaze linger on a nearby oak tree, bare of leaves, as his chest rose and fell heavily, white, wispy puffs of air exiting from his nose. His cheeks were pink and his hair still shook in front of his face as his eyes, stormy and covered in a thin layer of tears, were partially hidden from view. But Morgan could still see the emotions surging through them, like a black rain cloud that loomed over the world, anger, hate, sadness and betrayal lurked within the teary mass of hazel.

"I...I didn't mean to leave you there. We tried as hard as we could to find you," Morgan said, hating the fact that his voice seemed to betray him, the calm and sturdiness that was usually found in his words nowhere in sight.

Reid shook his head as he started to walk again, faster than before as he limped slightly off his leg, incapable of walking too fast without his leg becoming stiff and sore. _'The cold probably makes it worse too,'_ Morgan thought before Reid's cutting voice broke through his mind.

"You didn't try hard enough."

It was said quietly, as though Reid had never truly intended for Morgan to hear. But he did. And for some reason, it infuriated him.

"What do you want me to do, Reid?" he asked, following after his friend and finding it quite easy to keep up with him, his limp severely slowing him down. "Trust me, if I could, I'd go back in time and change anything! But I can't do that, and neither can you." Flailing his arms about in exasperation, he said, "Do you want me to say I'm sorry? Because I am! I hate myself, Reid! Every night I have nightmares about what happened and what could have happened! And every time, in those nightmares, _I'm_ the one who hurts you!"

Morgan rounded on him, standing in front of Reid and blocking the path, his arms spread outwards as if to prevent him from trying to walk past. Reid came to a stop, gazing down at Morgan with hard set eyes, resembling more Hotch than the young genius.

Swallowing, Reid said in a low, shaking voice, "You left me there. You didn't do anything." Raising his voice, he yelled out, "You let it happen!"

Reaching his breaking point, Morgan countered, "So did you!"

Reid opened his mouth, as though to retort, but thought better of it as he let his eyes flit down to the ground, the hard edge to them gone. His lips were parted slightly, the thin clouds of his breath materializing once more as he ducked his head, the curls falling in front of his face, yet not long enough to hide it fully yet.

Moving closer, Morgan bowed his head as well, trying to meet his eyes. "I'm sorry. If I could go back and make it never happen, I would. I...I'm sorry, Reid. I don't know what else to say," he told him, reaching out tentatively to put his hands on his shoulders. Reid regarded his hands wearily, yet made no motion to push them away, allowing Morgan to gently grasp onto him.

"Reid...please...forgive me. I know I don't deserve it but-"

"No," he interrupted, moving his gaze upwards. "You do. I shouldn't blame you or anyone else. It was my fault. I knew I-"

Morgan shook his head. "No one deserves the blame but Andrew and Varney."

Reid stopped, his mouth slacked open as he blinked back what had been the start of tears. Slowly, and after much thought, he said, "Is it wrong that I want them to suffer as much as possible?" His voice wavered with what Morgan could only classify as fear.

Not all too surprising. For someone who spent years of their life battling hateful beings and seeing what emotions and people were capable of, it could easily become a concern that the things they saw would get the best of them. That they would turn into the monsters they hunted on a daily basis.

"If it is, than were both wrong, Pretty Boy," Morgan said, offering a small smile as he loosened his grip on Reid's shoulder. "I see a death sentence for Varney, to be honest."

Reid shook his head. "No, that's not good enough." At Morgan's confused glance, he shrugged away from his grasp and said, "I...that's the easy way out. He doesn't...doesn't deserve to get off so easily."

Sighing, he stepped around Morgan and headed off the paved path towards a small seating area, his leg aching with the cold. Morgan followed him, in silence, sitting down beside him on the wrought iron bench. They sat shoulder to shoulder, staring at the ground, simply listening to the wind against the leaves and branches. But when Morgan's phone vibrated against his leg, he sighed, knowing before he even pulled it out that Hotch was reminding him once more of his duty.

"Are you going to check that?" Reid asked, his brow furrowed as he looked down at Morgan's pocket where the phone sat, untouched.

"I know what it says."

"Oh, I wasn't aware you were psychic," Reid said jokingly, stretching his legs out only to wince when his right leg throbbed. "Stupid leg..." he mumbled.

"What if I were to tell you that there was a way for you to effect the outcome of their trials and dictate their fates?" Morgan asked quietly, his hands clasped together in front of him as he leaned forward, his elbows propped on his knees.

The younger agent seemed to perk at this, sitting straighter and twisting his body so that he could better look at his friend. "I...Can I?" he asked, an eyebrow raised.

But as Morgan turned to look at him, his mouth opening to speak, realization struck him. "Wait. You want me to testify?"

He didn't answer. He didn't need to.

Settling down on the bench and slumping forward, his eyes gazing out at nothing, he shook his head slowly. "I don't know if I-"

"You don't need to," Morgan answered, cutting him off. Raising his hand and gesturing for emphasis, he added, "We have enough evidence without you taking the stand, but it could always help. It's up to you though."

Reid nodded, but he had stopped listening to the agent, his mind abuzz with more thoughts and activity than it had for months. Did he want to testify? _Could_ he testify? While Morgan had stated that him being there was not entirely necessary, he knew that he was stretching the truth. Reid was the only surviving victim of their crimes, the only person able to give a firsthand account of what Varney and Andrew had done. His testimony could mean the difference between serving justice and being shafted by the legal system. But was it worth it?

He was no stranger to the ways of a court, and he began forming a list of the questions he would be asked on the stand. The evidence wouldn't be in question- there was more than enough evidence to be given. It was his admissibility that would be examined and torn to shreds.

_'Is it true that you were hospitalized for a psychotic fracture that lasted three months?'_

_'Wouldn't this break effect your judgments and memory of the event?'_

_'How did a trained profiler encounter both of these murderous criminals and not realize it?'_

Would he be able to sit in the same room as Andrew and Varney when his own memories of them were enough to send him into a panic attack? Would he break down in the court room and only do damage for his side of the case?

He shuddered at the thought, the idea of sitting across from the two men sending shivers down his spine that shook his bones so that they clattered together. To be so close to them...

Could he handle it?

But there was something strangely enticing about the same prospect. To come face to face to the men who had tried to break him and prove to them that they hadn't succeeded- that he had won, and they had failed- seemed so alluring. A part of him wanted that so bad, wanted to gloat about how far he had come to the men who had brought him to Hell and left him there.

But he wasn't that much better, was he? He was sane, yes, but how sane could he truly claim to be? He still suffered from crippling flashbacks and was incapable of speaking about his week. Dr. Greene was become impatient with his lack of progress, he knew, and one nurse had even had the nerve to tell him that he would most likely never leave. Did he really have much to boast? What if they looked at him and were simply satisfied, knowing that they had permanently effected his life?

_'It doesn't need to be permanent,'_ he thought, chewing his lip in thought.

"Reid?" Morgan called, pulling him out of his careful weighing of the two options.

Looking up, Reid made his decision in that instant, raising his chin defiantly as he said, "I want to." Before Morgan could even respond, Reid stood and began to walk back to the building containing his ward, turning around after several long strides and waiting for Morgan to follow.

"Where are you going?" the agent asked, rising from his sitting position and catching up to his friend, his eyebrows knitted.

"To schedule an emergency meeting with Dr. Greene," he responded nonchalantly. "I figure that I have two weeks to at least manage the anxiety, so I need to get started as soon as possible."

Quirking an eyebrow, Morgan chuckled lightly. "And why is getting better so important to you all of sudden?" he asked.

Reid stopped, turning to him as he let a small smile pull on his lips. "I want to prove them wrong."

xXx

**Author's Note:**** In the next installment of **_**The Doctor's Patient: The Trial!**_

**Will Reid be able to keep his cool around Varney and Andrew? What will be their sentencing? Will this story ever end?**

**Find out, in Chapter 29!**

**As always, thank you for all your reviews, alerts and favorites. They make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside! **


	29. Chapter 29

**Disclaimer:** **Criminal Minds and all its associated characters are property to CBS and no profit is being made from this story.**

**Author's Note:**** IMPORTANT! Okay, so two things to say! The first thing is I have finally decided to make myself a separate Facebook account for my writing, original and fanfiction. There will be updates about stories, notes on ideas, sneak previews and photographs. The photos will be of original artwork (shameless self-advertisement? Meh, probably), fan art that would be relevant to stories (for example, if I write a story where Reid dresses up as a lion for whatever reason, I will not resist the urge to draw a picture of it and post it) and photographs to help the readers envision elements of the story. So far, I have several photos of the Flats up and would be delighted if you stopped by to check them out! I also have a deviantART account with the same photos, but I thought a Facebook would be better for people who either (a) aren't familiar with deviantART, or (b) are interested in updates and notes for this story, and others. So, yeah. A link is available to both accounts on the top of my profile. Feel free to add me and even hit me up on the chat if you would like. (On another note, the facebook account is new, and so it's in the works. The photos are all up, and I will be posting notes for upcoming stories and stuff.)**

**Second thing- I've tried my hardest to get all legal procedures and jargon as accurate possible, as well as make everything believable. I'm truly sorry if something seems out of place or what not, I did try to research as much as possible without overtaxing the worth of it. If there are any indiscretions, please be so kind as send me a PM or review regarding them and I will see what can be done to correct it!**

**Also remember- some things have intentionally be changed (in this chapter, Reid's father.)**

**Chapter Twenty-Nine: Pulling Up**

_'There are two ways of exerting one's strength: one is pushing down, the other is pulling up.' -Booker T. Washington_

Reid pushed his food around his plate, slouching forward as he sat in his chair in the dining hall, covering his ears to the noise. He had never liked eating in the room with so many people and noises surrounding him, but he was required to.

_'The less isolated you let yourself become,' _Dr. Garrison had told him, _'the more inclined everyone will be to let you go away for the trials.'_

It was with that thought in mind that Reid, begrudgingly, made the effort to wake up every morning at eight to join the rest of the patients for breakfasts. He made sure he attended every lunch in the hall, and every dinner. He was present for every group meeting and even forced himself to sit in the rec room or the living room for at least an hour a day, trying to seem more sociable.

But unfortunately and despite being an 'expert at everything' as he was so often hailed as being, Spencer Reid was by no means an expert at social interactions. That being said, his attempts at being sociable were just that- attempts. Weak at best and failures at worst. If it were not for his near savant knowledge of psychology, particularly abnormal psychology, he was sure he would have sent several patients into a panic attack of sorts when they tried to talk to him.

He had already tried to explain to a traumatized burn victim that the amount of injuries received from fire have significantly decreased over the years due to various factors. Needless to say, she was not entirely taken with him.

However, the doctors had been pleased enough with his effort and Morgan, along with Hotch and JJ, were to arrive shortly to escort him to New York for the trials. He just needed to pass his time until then.

Sighing, he placed his fork down and settled his chin in his hand, leaning his weight to the side as he looked around the room, letting his eyes fall on the man sitting in front of him as his mind wandered.

In about two hours, he would be temporarily leaving the hospital in order to attend the court.

In six hours, he would undergo an extensive psychological evaluation to make sure he was fit to take the stand.

In twenty-two hours, he would see Andrew again.

"What are you looking at, Fairy?"

Jumping, Reid lifted his weight so that he was more centered as he trained his gaze on the man before him, letting his mind return to the present. Confused, and as if seeing the man for the first time despite having stared at him, he furrowed his eyebrows as he said, "Um...excuse me?"

The man, appearing to be in about his mid thirties a with thinning black hair, swallowed the the large bite he had taken of his egg sandwich and said, "You're staring...stop staring." A coagulating line of yolk dribbled down his stubbly chin, but he made no move to wipe it away as he pointed at Reid and added, "I don't go that way, buddy."

It took him a moment to fully understand what the man was saying, his mouth opening slightly as he shook his head fervently and said, "No, no, no! I'm not...I mean...I wasn't-" A deep laugh cut him off, the man letting his sandwich fall to the plate as he leaned back with the guffaw. Realizing that his stammer was the cause of his amusement, Reid snapped his mouth shut and looked down at his lap, his cheeks heating up.

The man, settling down from his laughing fit, wiped his mouth, smearing the yolk across his chin. "Nervous that I caught you?" he asked, deepening the crimson shade on Reid's cheeks.

Opening his mouth but then closing it again, not trusting himself to speak without stammering, Reid looked up to meet the man's eyes, shaking his head. He cleared his throat and tried again.

"No, I...I like women," he said quietly, closing his eyes against the image of blonde hair and blue eyes that seemed to attack him at the statement.

His claim was met with raised eyebrows and a soft chuckle.

"Really, now?" the man asked in obvious disbelief.

Before Reid could respond, a voice to his right cut in.

"Leave the poor boy alone, Daniel," the new man said, smiling with amusement at the man, Daniel, as he shook his head and added, "And wipe the food off your chin. You're disgusting."

Daniel paled visibly as he grumbled something inaudible, reaching for a napkin and wiping the now fully dried on glop of yolk of his chin with much effort. As he did this, the other man turned to Reid and said, "Sorry about him. Manners aren't his good point- but living in a mental hospital causes many people to just not care, I suppose." He paused in his speech, looking upward as he bit his lip introspectively. Humming softly, he brought his gaze back down to Reid and smiled at him, the wrinkles and creases around his lips emphasizing as he did so. Sticking his hand out, he said, "I'm Henry, by the way."

Reid stared at the hand before him, involuntarily move back from it as he felt his pulse begin to quicken. He contemplated not shaking it, letting it sit before him as if he hadn't seen there. Despite his almost clueless quality regarding interaction, he _did_ know that not shaking a proffered hand was exceedingly rude.

_'But living in a mental hospital causes many people to just not care, I suppose,' _his thoughts mused, willing him to just turn away from Henry's hand and to use the older man's words as his excuse. He couldn't though, the manners he was taught so permanently etched into his mind. Swallowing hard as he tried to push his fear of hands down into his stomach, where apparently a large amount of butterflies had taken residence, he slowly moved his own hand closer, giving him ample time to change his mind at any point.

But before his movements could even become obvious, Henry pulled his own hand back and said, "Sorry, should've thought about that." Looking around the room, in turn making Reid do the same thing, he shrugged and added, "This is a trauma ward. Not many people here take kindly to touch."

At this, Reid's pulse only hastened as his heart rate sped up, his lip twitching nervously as he withdrew his hand and placed it, shaking, on his lap. Was it really that simple to know what had happened to him? Did simply being a patient on this specific ward, combined with his post-traumatic habits, tell everyone what he had been through, as though he were wearing a sandwich board describing it all?

His vision blurred as sweat crept down the slope of his brow and fell into his eye, his head bowing at the thought of being so shallow, so easily read. Would he be forever stigmatized because of this? If he met someone on the streets, years from now, would he still be unable to shake their hands, and in not doing so, betray himself and his secret?

There was something so horrifying about having others know about it- it was something that was deeply embarrassing and completely his own. Why should strangers be able to know immediately his life story, while simultaneously keeping their own under lock and key? Would he be judged? Would people avoid him?

Look down at him?

Laugh at him?

Call him weak?

Or, worst of all...

Pity him?

"Henry, I think he might be...well, you know, a fruit-" Daniel started, only to be interrupted by Henry who rolled his eyes with a large flourish of his hand and incline of his head.

"Really, Daniel, the poor kid finally comes out of his room and you attack him for zoning out? You're going to scare him away," he admonished, shaking his head as he reached for his coffee, sitting on his tray in a paper cup and plastic lid. After taking a sip, he sighed contentedly and added, "And you know what they say, those who accuse others of something are often trying to take the suspicion away from themselves."

Daniel blanched, his mouth opening slightly as Henry sniggered, taking another gulp of his coffee.

"I am not gay!" Daniel argued in his defense, his hand rising and then coming down hard, slamming against the table. The trays jumped from the surface and clanked back down, Henry's half-eaten muffin falling to it's heavier side with the force. An orderly, sitting on a chair set aside from the twenty-some odd patients, looked up from her book jerkily at the louder than average noise.

Gray eyes narrowed as she honed in on Daniel, her lips pursing before barking out, "Watch your temper, Mr. Bartkowski."

Looking morosely at the nurse, Daniel shook his head and turned back to Henry, jabbing his finger in the air as he said, "I'm just saying, I ain't go that way. You got it?"

Henry smirked as he leaned closer to Reid, whispering softly, "Methinks he doth protest too much."

Reid, who had hitherto watched the interaction in reserved entertainment, still silently battling his worries in the back of his mind, snorted inelegantly before clamping a hand to his mouth, ducking his head.

"What are you laughing about over there?" Daniel asked gruffly, making Reid reach for his own coffee and busy his mouth before he could say anything, which would only make the situation worse. The warm liquid however was a welcomed distraction, his love of coffee still quite prevalent despite being limited to a cup a day.

"So, what was your name? I didn't catch it?" Henry asked, waving away Daniel's question as he picked another piece off of his muffin, which still sat on it's side.

Coughing slightly on his coffee in his haste to put it down to answer, Reid said, "Oh, sorry. I'm ugh..." he stopped, wondering if he should add the titles he normally would, in any other place. But would _'SSA Dr. Spencer Reid'_ really mean anything in here, this little room that seemed so closed off from the world it was nestled into? Deciding it didn't, he shrugged his shoulders to himself and said, "Spencer." No titles, no surname. Just Spencer.

_'Weird,'_ he thought, realizing just how odd the singular name felt on his tongue. _'I've never been just Spencer.'_

All his life, he was always endorsed by something other than his name, be it a title, a nickname or adjectives.

_Diana and William's boy._

_That smart kid._

_The child prodigy._

_Pretty Boy._

_Boy Genius._

_Dr. Reid._

_Agent Reid._

Never was he just Spencer, except in this place, where time seemed to stand still and where the world was nonexistent. The only people alive were those sitting around you, as they were the only people you ever saw, could ever converse with. Not even the news and media were enough to penetrate the shield of isolation that wrapped itself like a dome around the hospital. Aside from the movie that was forced upon them, nothing else existed to prove there was life beyond the one Reid was reluctantly secluded in.

But it felt almost liberating, to finally not have to live up to expectations or to be hassled by the skeptical looks he often received when he said he was from the FBI. So many of the people he met always seemed to know him before he knew them, forcing him to have to be everything they wanted and thought of when they had heard that _'that really smart kid'_ was coming. For the first time in his life, he wasn't expected to blow someone away with facts and statistics or be the stereotypical nerd he was often teased as being.

"Spencer? Alright," Henry said, smiling amiably and nodding. "So, why is it that in the past two weeks you've suddenly decided to join us? Did you get bored in your room?"

Frowning, Reid thought about his answer, not wanting to break the seal of this new found identity by revealing to much. While he was so used to rattling off his credentials and experience within the FBI, he wasn't so sure that that was something he wanted to do. He had just recently discovered the freedom of being Just Spencer, and he wasn't ready to give it up so soon. So, hoping that Henry would understand, he said, "There's some stuff I need to do, legal stuff, and in order to be allowed to leave I needed to make more of an effort to socialize."

There, concise and too the point. No mention of his honored ranks among the Federal positions, or boasting of his genius qualities. Just the relevant.

Henry nodded, stroking his chin in thought. "That'll be nice, getting out for a bit. Even if it is for something as tedious or stressful." Reid nodded, his thoughts returning once more to the trial. To seeing Andrew.

"Stressful, yeah," he said, almost unintentionally as he began to poke his leftover pancakes with his fork and push it around his plate, saturating it in syrup.

"You know," Henry began, slumping his shoulders as he turned back to his food, his voice and body language far less open than they had been. "The reason I'm here is because my son was involved in a lot of bad things. Gangs and drugs and stuff like that, you know? And one day, I got a call from the police, saying they found what they thought might have been his body. They wanted me to come down and identify it." He paused, biting his lip as his eyes misted over, the obvious signs of remembrance clouding over his features.

Reid raised his brow and tilted his head to the side, wondering why he was sharing something so private and painful, but unsure of how to say that he didn't need to continue with it if it hurt so much.

"It was him, and he had been murdered. Of course, I needed to testify in court in order to have the guys who shot him put in jail. It was the least I could do. I...hadn't been the best of fathers, I know, so I had to stand trial for him. It was really stressful, but I found that squeezing a stress ball helps a lot." Turning back to Reid, he smiled and said, "I actually have one, if you want to borrow it for your trip. The questions can be brutal, and can remind you of some...not so good things, but having something to occupy yourself with and release some of the nerves can make it easier to bear."

Opening his mouth, Reid muttered the only thing he could think to say, his awkwardness returning to him with awful precision. "I...I'm sorry."

Waving his hand dismissively, Henry forced a smile on and said, "Don't be, you have your own problems to work through, you don't need to worry yourself with mine. I was just wondering if you would like to borrow a stress ball if you didn't already have one. So, will you?"

After a second of thought, Reid nodded, smiling slowly. "Yes, I would. Thank you." Whether or not the object would prove to be of any use to him, he was unsure. But the gesture was kind and heartfelt, and he felt inclined to accept it.

"When are you leaving? So I know when to get it to you?"

"Today, actually."

Henry whistled. "Soon, than? Alright, I'll grab it after breakfast and give it to a nurse to get to you," he said. He then smiled, placing his coffee down on his tray and grabbing it as he stood. "I'm going to go shower, so if I don't see you before you leave, good luck, Spencer."

Reid smiled. "Thank you, a lot."

"My pleasure," Henry called back, leaving the dining hall after depositing his tray on the counter. A couple of minutes later, and once he had effectively picked his food until it was a mess of pancake bits and syrup, he stood from his seat and left, heading to his room where Tori would be to give him another haircut.

"_Have to look your best,"_ she had told him, saying that his hair looked good both short and long, but not in the awkward phase it was currently in. While Reid wasn't a vain person by any means, he rather liked his hair and considered it to be one of his better qualities; short, long or in between. But he knew she was right- walking into a court room with hair that was so long it had turned into a mass of bunchy curls, yet too short for the curls to not stick up in awkward angles would not make him seem sane.

And with his history of the past five months, seeming sane was everything.

xXx

"For the record, please state your name, date of birth, and the title and position you hold in the FBI," the psychologist, a Dr. James Griffin, asked as he balanced the clipboard on his lap, his pen raised over it as he looked expectantly at Reid over his rectangular spectacles.

"SSA Dr. Spencer Reid, born on October 9, 1981," he answered slowly and carefully, his hands tossing the stress ball back and forth over his lap as he watched the FBI appointed doctor scribble the answer down.

Looking at the next question, he asked, "Do you have any physical problems that you are concerned about, seeing a doctor for, or take medications for?"

Reid thought for a moment, sucking in his lower lip as he bit it gently, wondering if psychological problems would be counted in this. Deciding they didn't, as this was a psych evaluation and the answers would not be received so easily, he replied _'No.'_

A mirror on the opposite side of the room, straight across from where Reid sat, hid Hotch, Morgan and JJ from view. But he knew they were watching, and listening intently.

_'They're probably coming up with their own interpretations of my answers,'_ he dismally thought, knowing from experience just how hard it could be to turn off those damned profiling instincts. Without meaning to, he would always find himself looking further into actions, examining everything said and not said, and thinking over a list of psychological disorders. After all, had it not been said that everyone suffers from at least _one_ disorder?

"Do you feel depressed, suicidal, or exhausted- more so than what is considered usual?" the doctor asked, drawing Reid's attention away from the mirror.

After a long, drawn out second, Reid nodded and breathed out, "Depressed and exhausted, yeah, but not suicidal." He tried to keep his voice quiet, so that only the doctor would hear his answer, even though he knew just how futile that was. The highly sensitive equipment that sat among the room would pick his words up and relay them back to the three people behind the window. Not as if that mattered, really. It wasn't as if they didn't already know his current mental state.

But nonetheless, Reid felt his cheeks flame in embarrassment at having people so close to him hearing these confessions.

"On a scale of one to ten, how bad is your depression- daily and right now?"

Raising his eyes to the top of his head as he thought, he said, "Daily? Seven. Right now? About five."

Looking back to the mirror, he stared at his reflection, vaguely wondering if he was staring at anyone. He always questioned what it might feel like to be someone under suspicions of a crime, knowing someone was watching you but not knowing whom. It could really be maddening.

"Have you ever wanted to harm yourself?"

Not taking his eyes away from his reflected image, he said, "Not intentionally, no." He was mesmerized by the way he looked- not in the way someone might be when they were conceited, but in the way someone who had never encountered a mirror before, and was fascinated by their new found looks, would be. While he had a mirror in the personal bathroom that connected to his room in the hospital, he had never really looked in it. Not truly, at least. Aside from several fleeting moments, when curiosity got the best of him, he tried his best to avoid what he knew would be reflected back at him.

Pale, yellowing skin.

Sunken, dead eyes.

Visible bones.

Lanky hair.

Shallow cheeks.

All the signs that he had been destroyed and beaten by Andrew and Varney were there, in the mirror- impossible to ignore or deny. Every time he saw himself for what he was, had now become, it was like someone had taken a spoon and hollowed him out, like one would a pumpkin to be made as a jack-o-lantern. It was this reason that kept him from looking at himself, if he could help it.

But now, having a large and expansive mirror placed directly before him, and with nothing of intrigue to look at, he was forced to see his reflection.

It was with his obvious surprise that he realized how much had truly changed.

His skin, though paler than it was before he was captured due to lack of sun, had finally lacked the sheen of poor health, and instead resembled more a look of polished porcelain, seeming far more intentional. Full cheeks, no longer concave, made his slim stature seem less so, his cheekbones no longer protruding sharply outwards. This change, occurring in more than just his face as the rest of him had begun to gain more weight, was because of the past two weeks, in which he forced himself to eat every meal he was given, he knew, and he began to wonder exactly why he was so opposed to eating in the first place if this was the result. The bags under his lids, while not gone, were less prominent, and were no longer a sickly shade of purple. But the real change was just above the bags, in his eyes.

Once dull and constantly sporting a lost and hopeless expression, the dark, muddiness of his eyes seemed to retreat somewhat, the gold and green flecks more noticeable. Somehow, his eyes not only appeared lighter, but they also seemed shinier, as though it was simply the lighting in the hospital that had made them look so dark and shadowed.

Chancing a glance overhead at the singular fluorescent light, he knew that the lighting couldn't be the reason.

"Dr. Reid?"

Jumping in his chair and twisting his body to look at the doctor, he frowned apologetically and shifted slightly, squeezing the stress ball in his hand. "S-sorry. Could you repeat the question?" he asked.

Sighing, the doctor said, "Could you explain your answer, please?"

Thinking back to the last question, and his given response, he paled slightly, mentally cursing himself. _'Stupid, stupid, stupid!'_ his mind berated himself as he resisted the urge to thump himself in the head. Swallowing nervously, he shifted in his seat again and said, "I ugh...in the shower. Sometimes I would think about things and..." He trailed off, biting his lip as he looked away, inclining his head to stare at the ceiling as though it were the most interesting thing in the world.

"You would scrub your skin raw, or burn yourself in the water?" the doctor pressed quietly, urging him to continue.

Reid shrugged. "Both, I guess," he answered quietly, turning his head away from the mirror, ashamed. Were they pitying him, looking at him differently now? Now, he was thankful for the barrier between him and the others, and that he could not see their faces. He didn't think he could handle it from them, his family.

"When was the last time you did this?"

After a second, Reid said, "Seven weeks ago."

The questions continued, some causing him to fidget more than others as he worried the stress ball in his hands, thankful to Henry and his kind offer. Working his hands had allowed him to focus on something while he impassively rattled of answers.

_Do you have any specific fears that you are aware of? If so, what?_

_Yes, inheriting my mother's schizophrenia and the dark._

_How debilitating are these fears?_

_More so, in the past couple of months._

_Does anyone in your family do drugs or drink excessively?_

_Yes, my father, he's an alcoholic._

_Is he recovering or still using?_

_I don't know._

After nearly an hour of the test proceeding in this manner, the doctor handed the clipboard to Reid, saying, "Could you please look your answers over and then sign at the bottom to verify them for analyzing." Nodding and taking the clipboard, he did this, scanning the twenty-two pages of content in a minute and then scrawling down his signature.

Dr. Griffin smirked when he received the clipboard back, shaking his head as he said, "You really read it all that fast?"

Reid just nodded, his eyes trained on the stress ball as he squeezed it in his hand, his fingers digging into the foam material.

"Impressive," he heard him mumble before heading to the door of the interrogation room, the clipboard in hand. "We'll process the information you gave us and give your superior, SSA Aaron Hotchner, a call when we know if you're fit enough to take part in tomorrow's proceedings."

"Okay," Reid answered, standing up from his chair as the door was opened for him. He walked through, thanking him as he went, and headed over to Morgan, Hotch and JJ, where they stood behind the mirror as he had known they would.

"Hey," JJ said with an encouraging smile as he approached. "You did really well in there, Spence."

"We'll see," he responded as he pocketed the stress ball, thankful for having worn something more leisurely than his usual work attire and therefore containing much larger pockets.

Morgan frowned. "Don't worry, man. You didn't say anything that could keep you from court."

Reid nodded, though he wasn't fully aware of the conversation that took place around him afterwards. He went through the motions of putting on his coat and walking with them to the car, where they would go out for dinner with the rest of the team and then head to their hotel rooms, awaiting the call and preparing for the trials.

The entire time, his thoughts were simply centered around Morgan's and JJ's words. Though he knew they were said to reassure him, and would have been said regardless of the success of his interview, he hoped beyond fathomable hope that they were right. Even if he himself couldn't take the stand, he at least wanted to be there- wanted Andrew to see him and know that he _didn't_ win. That this experiment failed like all the others and that now, there wouldn't be another one to continue in it's tracks.

And despite how angry and vengeful it seemed, he wanted nothing more than to see the man pay for what he did.

To him, and to the five other men who had previously haunted him.

xXx

"This is our room," Morgan said as he walked into the hotel room with Reid by his side, flicking on the lights.

The door led into a small entrance hallway, with what Reid assumed was the door leading to the bathroom on the right. Opposite it was kitchenette area, with a mini-fridge, a microwave, and a coffee machine, which Reid was eternally thankful for. The hallway opened to a small room with beige walls and two full sized beds, each decked in silvery-blue bedding and too many pillows. A nightstand sat in between the two, a phone and a lamp on its surface, while on the other side of the room was the large dresser and the television set, which Morgan immediately headed over to and turned on.

He grabbed the remote and flopped down on the nearest bed, flicking through the channels as Reid slowly and cautiously moved through the room, realizing that this wasn't the first night Morgan had spent here. Two suitcases were placed beside the bed, one opened and spilling with clothes, and the other untouched.

"Is that...?" Reid began, pointing towards the suitcase beside the empty bed.

"It's yours, yeah. We took the liberty of packing more formal clothes for you, since you didn't have any at the hospital," Morgan answered. Reid nodded, feeling a small twinge of anger at having his privacy invaded that way. But just as the emotion came, it left, a new question in mind as he thought of something he hadn't really had the time to consider.

"What about my apartment? And the stuff in it?"

Had he been evicted? Did he even have a home to return to? He hadn't paid rent in months, so was it possible all of his stuff was just gone, thrown out onto the streets, while another person moved into _his_ home? How could that have happened? How did he not even think about it? He felt the start of what he had now come to know as a panic attack coming on at the prospect of having nothing to return to, but just as his head began to feel light and his chest clenched with the struggle to breathe, he heard Morgan's nonchalant answer.

"It's taken care of, you'll be able to go right back to it when you're officially discharged," he said, smiling slightly as he changed the channel after a commercial came on.

Reid knitted his brow as he moved over to the second bed, slowly lowering himself onto it as he asked, "But...how? I haven't paid any of the bills, and it's not being maintained and-"

Morgan rose a hand to quiet him as he chuckled to himself, shaking his head. "Don't worry about it, Kid. It's taken care of."

"But-"

He was interrupted by a knocking sound, but it was coming from the side instead of in front of him, where the entrance door was placed. Jerking his head in the direction of the noise, he was surprised to see another door, set to the far side of the room and beside the dresser.

At his confused and wondering look, Morgan said, "Technically, we're off duty agents, and you're a ward under Hotch's care, since you're not in the hospital and he promised liability to you. So, our room is connected to his." As Reid nodded, his mouth forming a small 'O' in understanding, Morgan called out for Hotch to come inside.

The door creaked open and the man entered, his jacket removed so that he was only wearing his dress shirt, pants and tie.

"Are you all settled in?" he asked, looking pointedly at Reid as Morgan turned off the television and sat up, eagerly watching Hotch.

"Yeah, I guess. Everything was put here for me so..." Reid answered, falling silent as he looked at his suitcase. What had happened to his apartment? Why wouldn't Morgan say?

"Did they call, Hotch?" Morgan asked.

As if just now remembering that the trials would be occurring the next day, and that Hotch was the middleman between him and deciding factor of whether or not he could attend, Reid jumped at the words and lurched off of the bed, standing attentively as he turned to fully face his boss. He swallowed nervously and clenched his jaw, his teeth grinding as he waited for the answer.

He wanted - he _needed!_- to be able go. He had to say yes, he had to.

Hotch nodded, letting a small and rare smile pull his lips as he said, "You were cleared."

Breathing a sigh of relief, Reid fell back down on the mattress, smiling lazily up at both Hotch and Morgan, who were each exchanging wide grins.

"See? Told you they'd let you in. You worry too much, Pretty Boy," Morgan said, shaking his head with his words as he leaned back down on the mattress.

"I better get back to my room now. I have statements to prepare and whatnot." Moving back to the door leading into his own room, he turned back to the two and said, "Get a good night's sleep, we have a long day tomorrow. And Reid, Dr. Greene wanted me to make sure you took your medications."

_'Of course,'_ Reid thought, resisting the childish impulse to roll his eyes as he nodded, sitting up once more and reaching for the bag he had deposited beside his bed. He bid Hotch a good night as he pulled the satchel into his lap and began sifting through it, trying to find the foil wrapped Seroquel as he tried to push his self-defeating thoughts away from his mind. But it was of no use, he couldn't help but feel like a kid in need of a babysitter at those words.

He constantly needed watching.

Watching to make sure he took his meds.

Watching to make sure he wasn't submitting to terrifying flashbacks and anxiety attacks.

Watching to make sure he wasn't going to hurt himself.

Watching to make sure he wasn't going to break.

He felt fragile, like there was a big sticker on his forehead that read 'Handle With Care' that everyone but himself could see. And he hated it. He hated being a burden to others, and seeming even weaker in their eyes than he had before. Or was it in his own eyes that he seemed weak?

"Here."

He looked over at Morgan, who was handing him a cup of water. Smiling his thanks, he took it and, after popping the small, blue pill into his mouth, took a sip of the water to chase it down.

As he placed the glass back down onto the surface of the bedside table, he looked up to meet Morgan's curious eyes. He was about to ask him why he was staring at him that way, but was cut off by Morgan asking, "What does that one do?"

Looking back down at the small, broken foil seal he still held in his palm, he thought before answering, "It's Seroquel. It's used to treat schizophrenia, mania, and depression in bipolar patients. It can also be used alongside other drugs to treat depression, and it also can work as a sleep aid." After a moment, he added, "I have it for depression and for sleeping." He held his hand out over the table and turned it over, letting the little piece of garbage fall onto the surface as he returned to his bag, promising himself he would throw it out later.

"What else do you take? I know you told me before, but I can't remember," Morgan asked, his voice subdued and gentle as though he knew how much he might be crossing the line, but his curiosity made it impossible for him to step back.

Pursing his lips, Reid shrugged. "Klonopin for anxiety and depression, and Wellbutrin." At Morgan's expectant look, he explained, "It's used to treat depression mostly, but I have it for ugh..." he paused, swallowing harshly before continuing, "the um, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder."

Morgan nodded slowly, his dark eyes seeming lost and distant. "Are you ready to face Andrew?"

"I think so," Reid answered as he stood from the bed and headed over to the suitcase, searching for pajamas to wear. He heard the sound of the television being turned again, tuning into _The Young and The Restless_ as Morgan went about his way. Pulling out dark blue flannel pants and a gray tee shirt, Reid pushed himself up off the floor and made his way to the bathroom to change, thankful he had taken the Seroquel when he did now that his nerves were getting the best of him.

In less than twelve hours, he would be walking into the court room and facing Andrew.

Andrew...

The man who kidnapped him.

The man who tortured him.

The man who broke him.

Sliding his jeans over his hips, he looked down at his legs- the pallid skin tone, skinny appendages with traces of lean muscle and the ugly white and reddish brown scars. Andrew had done this to him. He was the reason why every area of his body was marred somehow, with some disgusting and grotesque imperfection. It was because of him that every time he undressed to change or shower he would be assaulted by memories of that week.

Screwing his lips into a scowl, he quickly slid on the pajama bottoms, thankful to not have to look at the scars that stuck out so plainly from the rest of him. He hated the way he looked now. He hated the way his skin rose in healed over sections. He hated the way people looked at him. He hated the way everything reminded him of those seven days. He hated the way he shrunk away from hands.

But tomorrow, Andrew wouldn't see that.

He would only see SSA Dr. Spencer Reid, putting yet another sick and deluded criminal where he belonged.

xXx

"How do I look?" Reid asked, stepping out from the bathroom and spreading his arms out to show off the outfit. He wore simple gray, pinstriped pants with a matching vest over a dark purple dress shirt, a yellow tie in place. Morgan, looking up at him after putting on a sock over his right foot, laughed deeply at the sight.

Reid stiffened as he looked down at himself, his cheeks turning a slight pink as Morgan's laughter continued to ring in his ears. Did he really look that ridiculous? He thought he looked rather nice...

"Sorry, Kid. But it's just weird is all," Morgan responded, his laughter dying down as he slipped his feet into his shoes and began tying them.

Quirking a brow, Reid said, "I used to wear stuff like this all the time though."

"Exactly," he answered, looking up at him as he moved over to the other shoe, his grin wide and showing off his perfectly white teeth. "After spending five months seeing you in nothing but sweat pants and tee shirts, it threw me off a little."

Bristling at the comment, Reid claimed, "I wore other stuff."

"Yeah, but jeans and tee shirts aren't very...Reid-like either."

As Morgan stood and made to grab his suit jacket to put over his white dress shirt, Reid furrowed his brow at the words. "Reid-like?" he repeated, wondering if he really had been so unique that he created his own archetype among them. Did they all consider certain things to be 'Reid-like'? Frowning, he followed the agent's actions and grabbed his lightweight fleece jacket, throwing it over his slim shoulder before grabbing his bag and doing the same.

They were on their way to meet the others at the courthouse, Rossi, Emily, JJ and Garcia going ahead as Hotch stayed behind to escort them. Or rather, to escort Reid, as Morgan was more than capable than being on his own.

No, it was Reid that he had to worry about, and Reid that he had to responsible for.

_'One thing is certain,'_ he thought as he removed the morning's dose of Wellbutrin and Klonopin from the pocket of his bag, popping them in his mouth. _'I'm getting really tired of needing constant supervision.'_

A knock at the door connected his room to Hotch's pulled him out of his melancholic thoughts and he turned in time to see Morgan open the door, a fully dressed Hotch stepping through.

Looking at his off-duty agents, dressed and ready for the day, he closed the door behind him and called out, "Let's go. JJ called and told me that reporters and picketers are already starting to get there, so it's best to beat the majority of them to it."

As Reid stood and followed them out the door and into the main hall of the hotel, he furrowed his brow and asked, "Picketers?"

"Reid, a federal agent was involved in a serial crime case. Of course there are picketers," Morgan answered, only to be followed up by Hotch who shook his head.

"It took a long time to find a suitable jury because everyone was biased in the case," he said, holding open the back entrance and then, when both men had stepped through and into the bright and chilly outside, led them to the car. "Pretty much everyone wanted Varney and Wright in jail before the screening process, so it took a bit to find people who were open to the case."

"Oh," Reid said, opening the back door to the black SUV and sliding into the seat, setting his bag to the side as he leaned forward. "Was it really that sensationalized?"

Sharing twin glances of mild anger and slight amusement, Morgan and Hotch both nodded as they sat in the front, Morgan twisting in his seat to face Reid. "The only thing more sensationalized than a federal agent getting involved in a case like this is something happening to a child. So, expect a lot of media attention when we get there."

Needless to say, there was no amount of preparation suitable for what Reid saw when they finally pulled up to the Courthouse. A large crowd of people- holding signs, chanting words, giving news reports- stood outside of the steps, and he subconsciously pushed himself down into the seats, his stomach feeling like it floated into his throat. He couldn't go out there- there were so many people! He wanted to vomit just in anticipation of all the attention that would surely head his way.

Parking the car in the designated lot and turning the key in the ignition before pulling it out, Hotch turned to Reid, his eyebrows raised in question. "Are you ready?"

"No," he answered honestly, looking out once more at the crowd of people reporting this event, waiting for him to come out of the enclosed vehicle so they could jump him with questions and demand comments.

"Look, man, just think of something. Recite a novel or some obscure physics theory in your head," Morgan suggested, undoing his seat belt and preparing to open the door. After a moment in which Reid seriously contemplated not entering the building at all and waiting until the end to hear the news of the trial, he sighed and did the same, stepping outside of the car and immediately being joined by Morgan and Hotch, who flanked either side of him.

"I'll go first," the superior said, stepping in front of Reid as Morgan fell to the back, forming a train as they walked through the crowd, reporters and picketers turning their attention to them almost instantaneously.

_'According to quantum law,'_ Reid mused in his mind, his head bent down as he stared at his feet, trying to avoid tripping or stepping on the back of Hotch's shoes with so many cameras around. _'Schrodinger's illustrated theory of the cat is an example of a superposition of states, neither dead nor alive. Known as quantum indeterminacy or the observer's paradox, it is impossible for anyone to know the true status of-'_

"Dr. Reid! How do you feel about seeing the man who did this to you again?" a reporter asked, trying to push her way through to the young agent. His concentration broken, he was suddenly aware of all the questions being thrown at him, the attack of words and jeers causing his eardrums to pound and beat heavily.

"What do you think will be the outcome of Andrew Wright's trial? Do you think he will get off on the insanity plea?"

"What about Heath Varney's trial in the coming week? What do you think is an appropriate sentence?"

"Will you be able to handle seeing these two men?"

"Do you blame any of your fellow agents for this tragedy that occurred?"

_'Dammit, Hotch,'_ he thought bitterly, trying to plug his ears to the noise around him but knowing he couldn't physically do so. _'Walk faster!'_

The man refused to meet his unvoiced urges however, walking a steady and collected pace as he kept the air of professionalism about him even as so many reporters swooned in like vultures to the carcass.

_'Maybe if I walk faster and start kicking the heels of his shoes...'_ he mused, almost childishly as he slowly sped up his walk and tried to kick his boss's feet in a manner than seemed unintentional. But despite having longer legs, Hotch somehow managed to avoid every aimed kick that head his way, causing Reid to huff in frustration. He wanted to be inside the courthouse as soon as possible, and Hotch's need to always look calm and stoic was making this feat difficult.

Didn't he hear all the questions that were being hurled at Reid? Didn't he know that he wanted to just stop hearing them?

"Dr. Reid, how far have you come since being rescued by your fellow teammates?"

"Do you think you will continue to work for the BAU after this?"

Speeding up even more so that now he was noticeably trying to nudge Hotch along, Reid ducked his head down even lower and began wringing his fingers around each other. _'Maybe this was a bad idea,'_ he thought, feeling his legs wobble with unease as his levels of anxiety rose. _'Maybe I should have just stayed at the hospital.'_

Was that really what he had been brought down to? Someone who needed to be sheltered from the world and all the judging eyes? Had he really fallen down that much?

"Relax, Kid," he heard Morgan whisper from behind him, his neck stretched out so that there wouldn't be any accidental contact between their bodies, which would only worsen the situation. "Were almost there. Twelve steps left."

Nodding, Reid let his head fall back to the steps, concentrating at what Morgan had said.

Eleven steps left...

Ten steps left...

"Agent Hotchner, how has your team handled the temporary lost of two of your agents?"

Seven steps left...

Six steps left...

Five steps left...

"Agent Morgan, will you be able to keep your temper in check around the two defendants?"

Two steps left...

One step...

They reached the landing and Hotch opened the door, Reid quickly rushing inside to escape the barrage of questions.

_'Thank God that's over,' _he thought, following both Morgan and Hotch now as they brought him to the court room where the trial would be held, their strides long and hurried. After several minutes and two different occasions in which they climbed up large staircases, they made it to the assigned courtroom, one of the larger ones, and found that, upon opening the double door, it was already filled with people.

"The team's over here," Hotch said, pointing to the appropriate side and sparing not a moment in making his way over there. The closer they got, the more Reid could make out the golden haired head of JJ, the recently dyed red hair of Garcia, the graying black hair of Rossi, and the sleek black hair of Emily. They were sitting in the first bench behind the Prosecution, looking around and waving them over when they caught sight of the three agents.

"How bad was the crowd when you got here?" Rossi asked gruffly, shuffling over so that there was room. After sparing a quick look at the currently empty Defendant table, Hotch placed himself on the end of the bench closest to the aisle, forcing Reid to move farther down- farther away from where Andrew would be.

"Pretty obnoxious," Morgan answered, sitting in between Garcia and Reid, with JJ and Emily at the end.

"How are you feeling?" JJ asked quietly, shuffling closer to Reid so as to not have to raise her voice too loud to speak to him.

He turned to her, shrugging his shoulders as he reached into his messenger bag and pulled out the stress ball, bouncing it between his hands. "Nervous, I guess," he answered, knowing that it was an understatement of grand proportions. Nervous wasn't even the start of it. His stomach, as though torn between which direction to take, seemed to drop with heaviness and rise into his chest all at once, as his blood and pulse seemed to move too quickly through his veins, making his fingers twitch as he tossed the ball back and forth over the small distance.

"Is that why you have the stress ball?"

"Yeah. They also gave me extra anxiety medications, just in case," he said.

They sat in silence for a while, Reid throwing the ball back and forth, somewhat amazed that he was able to balance it so well and had yet to drop it. Even though it wasn't necessarily a difficult thing to do, he had, what Garcia and Morgan referred to as, the coordination skills of an intoxicated toddler. It was an exaggeration of course, but not entirely off based.

After throwing the ball into his left hand, JJ reached out and took hold of his right, wrapping her small, soft fingers around his own long and bony ones and pulling it into her lap, squeezing lightly. Startled but not displeased with this development, he raised an eyebrow and turned to look at her, his cheeks heating up once more. "JJ, what-"

Frowning, her lips pursed into a tight and straight line, she looked over to the aisle and let her eyes linger there. Following her gaze, he contorted his torso and looked over the bench, squeezing her hand when he saw Andrew walking down the aisle, handcuffed and in between two police officers.

The first thing Reid noticed about him was how slow and lethargic his movements were, his feet dragging behind him and his arms barely moving as he walked. _'Dampened dopamine levels,'_ he thought, knowing that the zombie-like movement was a common side effect of some drugs used to treat schizophrenia. Sluggish steps aside, Andrew was now wearing glasses, hazel eyes clear and dull, devoid of light, as he looked down at the floor, seemingly entranced by it.

Reid wasn't even aware his breathing had picked up and become ragged until he heard it, his breath scratching out of his throw and sounding sickly as his chest rose fast and shallowly. Andrew was so close.

So damned close.

He could hear the sound of water as it rushed over the rocks, rapids from variations in height making the roaring sound of water as it crashed back down even harder on the ears. He could feel the fear, new and blood boiling as it burned through his capillaries. The rocks beneath his feet as the water lapped up his ankle, the notes by his side.

Andrew was beside him, closer than he should've been. And then...

He was falling off the rock, swooning from where his head had been hit. His leg crashed and cracked as he fell and he broke through the surface of the water, his lung filling with the startlingly cold liquid that stabbed him like knives.

He was drowning, unable to breathe. A fist grabbed his hair and pulled him upwards, the journey to air seeming like it took hours of chest collapsing pain...

"Spence!" JJ gasped, twisting her fingers as she tried to pry his grip away from her reddening skin.

Shocked from his memory, it took him a couple seconds before the situation registered, and he released his hold on her hand, opening and closing his mouth. "I...I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you...I'm sorry..." he said, snapping his hand back and resting it in his lap.

She rubbed her hand and fingers for a minute before reaching out and grabbing his hand again, making sure to place her palm more over his fingers so he couldn't squeeze too hard again. "Don't be, I guess I sort of expected something like that to happen," she said, smiling at him.

He wanted to pull his hand back so that he didn't hurt her again, but he couldn't. He was too selfish, he knew, but he liked the way her hand felt around his own, her soft skin over his slightly more calloused skin. Her thumb was rubbing smooth circles into the juncture of his thumb absentmindedly, somehow calming him.

How was it that her hands were the only hands that didn't scare him, or make him cringe away with fear? Had anyone else have reached out and grabbed his hand, he would have panicked, becoming a frenzied mess to get away. Yet when she did it, he could only wonder how it was possible to ever go so long without feeling her skin on his.

Letting his hand lay in her lap, he turned to look back at Andrew, taking a sharp intake of breath when their eyes met. He wanted to look away, anywhere but at those cold and dead eyes. But he couldn't. They were glued in place and he had to remind himself not to squeeze JJ's hand again.

The judge entered, the door slamming with finality as he took the stand. Right before the Bailiff stood, demanding that all others do the same, Andrew smiled fondly at Reid, a look of adoration and familiarity alighting his otherwise dark eyes.

xXx

**Author's Note:**** I had to include at least one scene of the other patients in the ward, as that gives the opportunity to come up with really interesting and unique characters that would otherwise seem too crude. Ah anyway, thanks for all the reviews, alerts, and favorites! Here are some specific replies.**

**Omgnotagain-**** The story has broken down to research, and inferences. I tried researching psychological incidents similar to Reid but- and no surprise here- there weren't any that I could find. Needless to say, I had to use what I know about disorders and psychology/physiology to kind of...assume what would happen. My biggest fear is that some extensively trained in psychology (and, most recently, law) will read this and find a multitude of errors. I tried to prevent this, but you never know. Thanks for the review, and I'm glad you love my story!**

**La Ange Noire-**** Which quote might that be? Hm, curious... Anyway, I'm glad you think so and continue to enjoy the story!**

**Lolyncut-**** The overall consensus seems to be that they deserve a fate worse than death (I'm thinking crossover with Harry Potter to introduce the dementors, no?) And ah, picketers and the like...how irritating, but I felt that in such a high-profile like case there was bound to be some. Thanks for the review!**

**To the other reviewers, thanks again! It always makes my day to see at least one person enjoying this bizarre concoction of my mind!**

**Remember to stop my profile and find the link to see the photos if you're interested! **


	30. Chapter 30

**Chapter One: Revenge**

_'The best revenge is to live.' -Near, 'Death Note'_

"Agent Hotchner, please place your non-dominant hand on this Bible and raise your dominant one," the Defense Attorney, a Joseph Olivera, said as he instructed the unit chief. Without hesitation, Hotch reached out, placing his hand on the Bible and raising his opposite one, looking at Olivera for further instruction. "Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?"

He nodded curtly before saying, "Yes, I do." Hotch then looked past Olivera, his eyes flitting over the judge, the bailiff, and the jury, as if daring them to call him on a bluff. When no one did, and when the attorney had placed the Bible down and clasped his hands behind his back, Hotch redirected his attention to him, ready for the questions.

"Could you please state your name and your position within the FBI for the Jury?"

"SSA Aaron Hotchner, Unit Chief of my team in the BAU, alternating between all the subunits," he stated, his voice monotone and deadpan as he gave off the full title and position.

Olivera nodded, allowing the full weight of the information to sink in. "As an agent in the BAU- or the Behavioral Analysis Unit- what is it that you do?"

Sighing in annoyance at the tedious questioning, he rattled off the answer in the the same tone from before. "We create profiles of criminals based on crime scene and behavioral analysis."

"So, to put this clearly," Olivera said, positioning himself so that he was half-turned to Hotch and half-turned to the jury, his hands slipping from behind his back as he rose one for additional emphasis. "You're saying that, essentially, you're job is to study the psychology behind criminals and the crimes they commit? Am I correct in my understanding?"

After a moment, Hotch let his head fall slightly to the side as he said, "Yes, along with the application of these studies in order to arrest criminals."

"So then, in your professional and expert opinion, could you please tell us what Mr. Wright's profile is, Agent?" Olivera asked, intertwining his fingers together and folding his conjoined hands in front of him. He rose a brow, waiting expectantly for the answer.

Hotch's jaw clenched, his gaze shifting over to where Andrew sat, examining the man. But his head was twisting to the side, his hazel eyes settled on something else. Following the direction Andrew was looking in, he felt his anger surge to see that he was staring at Reid. Seeming none the wiser to the attention, the young agent was looking up at Hotch, waiting for his answer as he bounced the stress ball between his hands, clearly unnerved. His teeth begun to grind against each other as he looked back to Andrew, the man's eyes still trained, unmoving, from Reid's form. His hands and legs itched with the desire to jump over the witness stand and punch Andrew straight in the face.

How dare he? How dare he, after everything he did, still have the nerve to look at Reid, and obsess over him?

Turning his focus back to the Defense, he said, "Andrew Wright's actions have proved himself to be an organized killer, his murders premeditated and well-thought out. He had planned his abduction, his experiments and everything that went in between. We classified him as a partial Mission Oriented serial killer as he was working towards a specific goal."

Olivera contorted his face in mock confusion. "Partial? Why only partial, Agent?"

Hotch hesitated, knowing exactly where this line of questioning was heading. The defense was clearly trying to plead not guilty on grounds of insanity. And as much as Hotch wanted to lie and omit specific information, manipulate his knowledge and the profile of Andrew Wright to make the mad doctor bear the consequences of his actions, he couldn't. Ethics aside, he had sworn under oath and any indiscretion would surely result in a perjury charge.

Grinding his teeth as he took a deep, steadying breath, he said, "Partial because while most of his behaviors are consistent with an organized killer and with the profile of mission based killers, he also exhibits conflicting cognitive and behavioral differences."

"Like what?" Olivera prompted, his thin-lipped smile turning up into a vicious grin.

His fingers flexed underneath the lip of the witness stand, alternately clenching and relaxing his fist in anger. "Andrew Wright's actions were goal based in that they sought to achieve a cure, yet conflicting because murder was not his intentions."

"So, you mean to say, that he isn't a serial killer, because he didn't want these men to die?"

"The legal definition of a serial killer is one or more murder perpetrated by one or two men on separate events and time lines," Hotch growled out, the irritation in his voice evident as it lowered and became gravelly, dark eyes narrowing in suspicious distrust. "Since all five men were abducted and murdered on different occasions and on their own, Wright meets all the necessary requirements for this classification."

Visibly taken aback by the immediate and concise answer, Oliver frowned and added, "But he didn't mean to kill them, did he?"

His patience waning, Hotch leaned back in the wooden seat and said, "With all due respect, Mister Olivera, I don't think you fully understand what a serial killer is. I have seen many a serial killer who, like Wright, didn't want his victims to die, the death being an unfortunate side effect to the methodic and terrorizing torture they were subjected to." His tone, though casual and rather calm considering the topic at hand, was laced with sarcasm and bitterness, making Morgan raise his hand to cover a growing smile from his seat. Before Olivera could respond to the deploring remark, Hotch added, "It doesn't matter the sanity of Wright during these murders- the facts remains that they are murders, brutal and cold ones at that."

Even Rossi had difficulty hiding the smirk that threatened to break free on his mouth, the feeling of pride he felt overwhelming as Hotch talked down to the Defense Attorney in the most respectful way possible. But Olivera did not see the amusement in the situation and, moving closer to Hotch, his chin raised high and his chest puffed forward, he asked the one question the team of profilers had hoped wouldn't come.

The one question that could result in Wright getting the easy way off.

"Did you and your team come up with a diagnosis for Mr. Wright?"

Hotch fell silent, his steely gaze meeting the pale green eyes of Olivera, neither willing to back down. His heart was racing in his chest as he felt his airways constrict. He couldn't answer that. Answering that would only make the jury lean towards the verdict they were avoiding, make them sympathize with the monster who was _still staring at Spencer!_

Following the handcuffed man's gaze once more, Hotch looked at Reid, their eyes meeting instantaneously. It was like a rush of two completely different aspects and emotions crashing into the other, a sea of fire and a sea of water meeting at one point and then grappling with each other. Heat against cool, struggle against peace. So different, yet so the same. And like the two combating elements, Reid's gently pleading and emotive eyes of golden-brown and dark green met Hotch's own demanding and closed-from-the-world eyes of searing brown. Currents of hope and sorrow and fear and want swam through the lighter orbs, while nothing passed through the heavily guarded eyes of the older agent.

But the calm that was so present in those unchanging eyes spoke nothing of the war Hotch was fighting inside his mind, guilt and protectiveness in a hand-to-hand fight with obligation and moral codes. How could he betray Reid like this? How could he tell this man- this room filled with men and women- that Andrew didn't know better when Reid was right there? How? He had let him down so many times before- the amounts of this instance increasing alarmingly as of late- that to let him down one more time was too much. Would Reid hate him for speaking the truth? Would he feel hurt? Would he ever trust him again?

"Agent Hotchner?" Judge Philips asked, a white brow raising in question as he leaned closer to the witness expectantly. "Is there a problem?"

Finally tearing his gaze away from Reid, Hotch swallowed hard. "No, not at all, your Honor."

After a moment in which the fifty-year old judge regarded Hotch behind his spectacles, he sniffed and said, "Then please tell the Court the answer to Mister Olivera's question, Agent Hotchner."

Closing his eyes in resignation, hoping that Reid would forgive him once more, he said, "The final diagnosis was a mild form paranoid schizophrenia with an extreme manifestation of dementophobia, or the phobic fear of insanity."

Smiling cockily, the attorney than asked, "Is it safe to say than that Wright was not in his most stable mindset then when these abductions and murders occurred?"

The words registered just enough for Hotch to chew his lip in thought, his eyes wandering once more to Reid of their own volition. His heart leapt into his throat when he saw that Reid had turned away from Hotch, his eyes focusing on the polished wood floor, betrayal evident. He let him down again. How often would this keep happening?

_'Not yet, Aaron,'_ he told himself, his inner voice sounding far more hopeful than he thought possible. _'There's still one trick up your suit sleeve.'_

He looked back Olivera, any traces of momentary guilt and pain gone as he said, "No, it's not."

The man actually chuckled, folding his arms over his slim chest. "Excuse me? Didn't you just say that he was a paranoid schiz-"

"I know what I said," Hotch interrupted, sitting to his full height in the chair and looking down at the man, summoning all he could to seem as intimidating as possible. "I also believe I said a mild case of schizophrenia. Wright was surprisingly functioning throughout this illness, functioning enough that his mind wasn't entirely out of his grasp. He was well aware of what he was doing and why he was doing it- his methods were too concise and perfected for it be otherwise. Not to mention the fact that he had maintained his medical practices and position with his employing hospital without anyone complaining or even suspecting something was off." Letting his eyes fall onto Andrew, the fierce and protective lion mewing in peace when he saw that the defendant had finally looked away from Reid, he added, "I would even go so far as to say that he has been in the Residual stage of this disease for years now, with his near obsessive fear of insanity propelling these crimes."

Thinking for a second, he then said, as though in afterthought, "Andrew Wright tortured and allowed the rape of six innocent men, five of which died because of this. His only reason for doing so was to ensure the stability of his own mental health. He sacrificed the sanity of six people for his own."

The cuffed man behind the Defendant desk, heavily medicated if his drooping lids and listless movements were any indication, seemed to acknowledge Hotch for the first real time since he had been speaking, his hazel eyes too cold for such warm colors. He looked haggard, worn and exhausted. But Hotch couldn't keep the inner voice from saying, _'He still looks better than Reid did.'_

Another round of questioning began, the answers requiring less thought and thereby allowing for Hotch to focus predominantly on Wright. He watched with probing eyes as Andrew shifted slightly, drummed his fingers, itched his thigh...and turned back to stare at Spencer Reid as though he hadn't had enough.

As though ruining the genius's life wasn't enough.

As though he wasn't satisfied until Reid was no more, resembling more the confused victim he had been than the doctor he was before all that, and had become once more.

There were many similarities between the two. Not just physically, but in intellect, life experiences, and emotional and social characteristics. But there was one major difference, which Hotch was very happy and proud to make note of.

Andrew Wright was a weak man, consumed by his fears.

Spencer Reid was a strong man, empowered by his fears.

xXx

Reid slumped forward in the uncomfortable bench, his left foot tapping quickly against the floors. Morgan sat beside him, anxiously rubbing his hands together as Hotch spoke in hushed tones to the prosecutor, a younger woman by the name of Angela Redding. While they talked quietly and in their own enclosed shell of space in the expansive hallway, various snippets of their discussion could be heard. Hotch asking what the likelihood of an insanity plea passing was, Angela saying no more than how difficult it was to actually be found not guilty on those grounds, avoiding the question directly. Hotch would than ask her what might the charges be, should he found guilty, receiving a noncommittal answer of, "The degree of murder depends on how competent he's determined to be" with the same being said about all the other charges.

Morgan was straining himself to hear everything while Reid was attempting to do the exact opposite, his feet tapping louder and louder as he tried to tune their words out.

He wanted Andrew to suffer, the way he had, but another part of him was simply not cooperating with this desire. Every time he thought about Andrew's sentencing and imagined the man in jail, there would be the voice in the back of his head that said, _'But if he really is sick, he doesn't deserve that.' _And before he could even stop himself, images of UnSubs, destroyed by an uncontrollable fate, distorted childhood, or diseased mind would swim over his eyes like superimposed images. He would view every single criminal that he had, admittedly, felt bad for, the people who he felt were dealt the poor hand in life. The people who were too ill to know better.

And then he would think of his mom.

Was it just a strange coincidence that both his mother and Andrew had the exact same subtype of the exact same disease? Or was it meant to be something more?

Reid wasn't a very religious man, not to say that he didn't adhere to moral codes or completely shun the idea of an omnipotent, omniscient being, but the case remained that he was too level-headed a person to believe that this connecting factor was meant to be a sign of sorts. He didn't think that God himself or any deity for that matter had specially crafted this incident and this bizarre circumstance in order for Reid to suffer an epiphany- he just couldn't let his mind think that.

But still, schizophrenia was a relatively rare disease, affecting only one percent of the United States population. What were the chances that he could be intertwined to two people sharing the same pathology to a near fault? Low, he knew, which made him grudgingly turn to the more divine option, and the pressing question:

If Andrew had done all he did because of paranoid schizophrenia, who's to say that Diana Reid wouldn't? She was not immune to delusions and was, as Reid hated to admit, just as likely as Andrew to have been lead down that path.

So what if it were his mother on the trial, suffering the same charges? Would he think she should go to jail?

No, of course he wouldn't. Biased or not, he would not believe his mother fit enough for it to be a fair sentence. So how was Andrew any didn't? If he wasn't a victim would he still want Andrew to suffer?

_'No, you wouldn't. You'd feel bad for him because you would understand his fear, and you know it,'_ he thought, biting his lip angrily. Since when did having an opinion become so difficult to manage?

"Hey, Pretty Boy," Morgan said, standing up from his seat and stretching. When Reid turned to him, prompting him to continue, he asked, "How would you feel about some coffee? I think I might run out and get us all some before the recess ends."

All thoughts of the case, Andrew, and his mother seemed to fly away from his mind as he nodded emphatically, his mouth salivating at the promise of coffee. "I'd love some," he answered, relieved that Morgan had given him the option. The trial had started so early and he had only managed to get in one cup, something that he vowed would change when he was out of the hospital.

Morgan nodded, smiling at the over-enthusiastic response. "Alright, I'll be back soon." With that, he left, leaving Reid to sit on the wooden bench, his thoughts grappling one another, as Hotch and Angela than began discussing Varney's case, one Reid was decidedly not willing to listen to.

He wasn't sure how long Morgan had been gone for when he felt someone take the seat that had previously been used by the dark-skinned agent, the man's elbows nearly touching Reid's as he moved in closer. "You seem to be doing very well," a familiar voice said in his ear, causing the young genius to bite his lip as a name and face escaped him. He knew the voice but couldn't quite place it...

Turning to face the new man, his memory too addled by something to give him the answers he needed, he found himself staring face to smiling face with Dr. Ostheim. He gaped openly, doing a remarkable impression of a fish out of water, before shaking the surprise from his body and letting himself smile. That's why he couldn't recognize the voice immediately- the fog of his temporary psychoses having made those little more than three months seem like a scene from an old movie, forgettable and fading as the film strip neared its end. But despite the hallucinations and extremely misguided delusions, he could still recall Dr. Ostheim, albeit with much straining of his perfect memory and with a not-so-clear idea. He did, however, remember feeling very much attached to him.

"Hey," he said, twisting his body around in the bench to better face the trauma specialist.

Dr. Ostheim did the same, placing his arm over the back of the bench for leverage as he said, "How have you been? I heard you've been lucid for two months now, about."

Feeling his cheeks burn with humiliation, still embarrassed and prone to the idea of having been anything but lucid his whole life, Reid cleared his throat awkwardly. "Uh...yeah. Two months."

"That's good. I was afraid for a bit there that you wouldn't come out of it at all, to be honest," the doctor said, smiling thoughtfully as he looked up at the ceiling, his head tilting to the side. "I'm glad you did, though. You, more than anyone, deserve to see these two go to jail."

Reid nodded, the tinge of pink gone from his face as he asked, "Not to sound rude or anything, but why are you here?"

"I have to give a basic medical and psychological account," he answered, turning back to Reid and smiling. "I really only need to be here for today, and then again once during Varney's trial, but I talked to the hospital about getting a couple weeks off so that I can see this to the end. Both trials, you know."

"Oh, alright," the young genius answered, biting his lip. He wasn't entirely sure about what to say- what was the proper etiquette one was expected to have when talking to the doctor who had seen him at his worst? It was strange situation, and not one he was particularly fond of, either.

Dr. Ostheim broke the silence, his voice quiet and even as he said, "Good luck taking the stand, Spencer. I can honestly say I've never met someone as strong as you, and I'm glad to have made your acquaintance."

Reid snorted in response just as he stood to stand, brushing out the wrinkles in his gray suit before turning to the genius, a brow raised. "What?"

"I...I'm not strong. I mean, look at me! My waist is the size of Morgan's upper arm," he said, smiling wryly at the slightly exaggerated comment. In truth, he had never taken a tape measure to his torso nor to his colleague's muscular arm, but he was almost positive that the numbers wouldn't be too far off from the other. He wasn't exactly the picture of masculinity or girth, as it were.

Straightening the lapels of his suit jacket, Dr. Ostheim shook his head and said, "After everything you went through, you proved medical science wrong and became lucid. And if that weren't enough, you came to attend the trials of the two men who did that to you in the first place." After a moment in which he let his words hang in the air, the medical doctor smiled and added, "I'll see you back in the court room."

Reid watched as he walked away, his teeth clamping down on the insides of his mouth and grinding the soft tissues slowly, deep in thought. Everyone had been calling him strong since he got out of Andrew's care. When would someone be honest with him and say that he was weak and foolish for having gotten into the situation in the first place?

xXx

It wasn't until the third day of the trial that Reid spoke, the first day having been spent on opening statements and Hotch and Ostheim's testimony, while the second day was dedicated to the testimonies of JJ, Morgan and Dr. Forte. It had become very apparent that the trial was not focused on claiming Andrew's innocence so much as it was proving he was too insane to truly be punished. No one was questioning _if_ Andrew did it, it was just a matter of deciding whether or not he deserved prison over mental health services.

And it had become very apparent as well that that decision would not be made easily.

It seemed that every time the defense proved Andrew was too mentally unfit during his crimes for him to be held accountable, the prosecution would rebuttal with an argument that proved he was. And just when the team started to relax, thinking that they had proven to the jury the real nature of the murders, the defense would simply produce another piece of evidence. It was almost like a drawn out game of tennis in which the opposing parties were equally skilled, the ball bouncing back and forth between both courts, no progress made on either side to win.

"_Your testimony will seal the deal,"_ Hotch would say to Reid every time the ambiguity of Andrew's sentence had come into question, never confirming either fate as he himself didn't know. _"When they hear your side of the story they'll realize Andrew was too lucid to be considered insane, don't worry."_ Still, no confirmation. But Hotch's attempt at comforting the young genius were admirable, even if Reid still was unclear as to what _he_ wanted for Andrew. And as the day of his testimony drew nearer and nearer, his anxiety and fear for the approaching moment where he would take the stand increased impressively. He couldn't think without his worries passing through his mind, he couldn't sleep without his fears taking on an all-to-real form as the nightmares he suffered from that week seemed to return with a vengeance. There had been two occasions where he woke to Morgan shaking him awake and Hotch standing in the doorway, a concerned and questioning look on their face. He knew what question was sitting on the tip of their tongue, what they wanted to ask their youngest companion as they sat in the room, giving him extra anxiety meds in some early morning hour:

Is he _really_ able to do this?

They would share a knowing glance, unaware of how angry it made Reid to see them do that, to speak without speaking about him, in front of him. He wanted to yell at them, demand they look at him and say what they weren't saying. But he couldn't- the medicine worked too fast and, as Morgan would hand him another dose of his Seroquel, it took only moments for him to fall back against his pillow in a deep, unperturbed sleep.

Regardless of the unasked questions as to whether or not Reid was ready to speak against Andrew, they still let him do it, waking him up earlier than usual on that day and dressing him even nicer than he had been. JJ forced him to eat a full though light meal, knowing the food would help settle his stomach. And Morgan had limited his intake of coffee, not wanting him too wired while Hotch made him take extra anxiety medication, saying that preemptive action was the best action.

Needless to say, Reid was thoroughly drugged as he sat on the bench, between JJ and Morgan, his eyelids drooping listlessly over his hazel eyes and his shoulders slumped. He wasn't nearly as medicated as Andrew, still more than capable of walking without shuffling his feet, but the extra dosage which he wasn't used to had effected him greatly.

He looked out from beneath the short wisps of hair that had fallen into his face, his eyes lazily looking out at Angela as she walked to and fro, speaking to the jury. In truth, he was only half listening to her speech, his mind somewhat dazed and fuzzy as a low hum seemed to fill his head. Maybe he had taken too much, in retrospect. But Hotch wouldn't intentionally drug him, especially during such an important event, and he wouldn't accidentally drug him either, as the man was smart enough to speak to the doctor before making such decisions. Still, he felt very hazy, but not unhappily so. He was relaxed, a calm he hadn't felt in so long.

But the calm ended the second he heard his name being called, all eyes turning to him, as he was asked to take the stand.

xXx

**Author's Note:**** Cliffhanger! Oh no! Thanks to everyone who reviewed and whatnot! It means so much! Please remember to pass the love onto this chapter!**

**Also, I recently got back from my family's cabin in Phoenicia again. Hurricane Irene really altered it! The Flats is no longer deep enough to swim in, which has me and my cousins devastated! (It was the best place to go for swimming) All the rocks were moved into the middle now. Makes me rather sad...**

**Anyways, next chapter: Reid's testimony, the start of Varney's trial...**


	31. Chapter 31

**Disclaimer:****Criminal Minds and all its associated characters are property to CBS and no profit is being made from this story.**

**Chapter 31: The Hanging**

_'There is no man so good who, were he to submit all his thoughts and actions to the law, would not deserve hanging ten times in his life.' -Michel de Montaigne_

The first thing Reid thought of as he sat down in the witness stand, his hands shaking nervously as they reached into his pocket to produce the stress ball, wasn't what one would assume. He didn't think about what to say, what he might be asked, or how the jury might respond. No, the first and only thing Reid thought about upon sitting down and looking out in front of him was how uncomfortable the seat was.

Essentially a wooden slab, the seat lacked even a slight indent so as to better shape to form the natural curves of the body, causing Reid to awkwardly shift against it, trying hopelessly to find comfort. He then speculated on how odd of a thing it was to make the witness stand so painful to sit on; didn't they want the witnesses to be relaxed?

His thoughts were disrupted by the sharp tone of the prosecutor, throwing him back to the present as she said something to the jury. He watched as the Bible was placed down- had he already spoken the Oath? Shaking his head, he realized he must have been so preoccupied with his thoughts he had put himself on autopilot. Before the idea could be considered any further, Angela directed a question at him.

A tall woman - made even taller with pointed heels - and a gray, slim suit, she pulled her lips up in facsimile of a smile before letting it waver as she returned to business. "Please state your name for the jury," she said, nodding in the direction of jurors, a large variety of civilians.

Clearing his throat, Reid said, "SSA Dr. Spencer Reid."

"And what is your position within the FBI, Agent Reid?"

"I am a Behavioral Analyst for the NCAVC in Quantico, otherwise known as profiling. I hold my team's specialty for geographic profiling, linguistics, and pattern solving," he stated, his head feeling like a chunk of mortar on his neck. He imagined that if he tilted his head slightly to the left or right, his skinny neck would snap as his disembodied body part fell down to the parquet flooring. His heart would continue to beat blood through his body, resulting in a bloody spray from his torn neck that covered the judge, the jury, the prosecutor…

Oh yeah, the prosecutor. He was in the middle of a trial.

Sitting up straighter, he eyed Angela as she began the real round of questioning. "Agent Reid, could you describe to me, in your own words, what happened that day that Andrew Wright abducted you?"

His fingers twitched. Straight and to the point, wasn't she? Clenching and relaxing his jaw, he took a deep breath before delving into the story. His perfect memory, a blessing or a curse, had allowed him to relay the day perfectly, each event in exact order and told exactly as it happened. But, while his lips moved and words were produced from his throat, he was nowhere to be found behind his eyes. The mentioning of that day had caused his mind, panicked and overwhelmed, to hide. He dove into his subconscious, sinking into his mind like one would a deep pool, letting his limbs become heavy and dissociate from him as a whole. It was like falling into an unknown world where you were merely an observer, not an active participant. A cloudy film separated him from the world, in an immovable partition that encased over him, letting only his words pass through.

He imagined himself moving between different worlds of isolation. In one world, he was a foreign invader who couldn't speak the same language- his diction and syntax far different from that of those who surrounded him. In another, he was a musician, limited to only several keys and unable to properly play a song for the audience before him. In another still, he was speaking through a membrane, his voice muffled and too incoherent for human ears.

But no matter where he let himself sink, his mind separating from the memories as best as possible, he still lulled beneath the surface. And as his account of the day ended, him explaining how he knew the drug was Ketamine, he resurfaced once more to pay close attention.

"Now, Dr. Reid, could you describe Dr. Wright's behavior during your captivity?" Angela asked, folding her arms and digging her hands into the bends at her elbows, her lips pressed tightly together. A thin, plucked eyebrow was raised high as she threw her weight onto her right heel, letting her knee bend with the position.

Shifting uncomfortably in the seat- the question still ringing in the back of his head- he shrugged his shoulders thoughtfully, letting his eyes lift to the top of his head as he said, "Well, um, he talked to me like I was a..." He hesitated, the fingers of his left hand gripping at the hem of his dress shirt and tugging on the sleeve, his tongue stumbling over the words. His mouth dropping open several times, he stammered before swallowing air in a large gulp and saying, "He treated me like a...m-mental patient. With schizophrenia."

Hazel eyes flitted down to his feet, hidden behind the witness stand at his confession, his neck shrinking into his shoulders. _'Deep breaths,' _he told himself, the fingers of his right hand pressing into the stress ball, watching the red latex cover dip in with the pressure and crinkle.

"How did he treat you, exactly?" Angela asked, her voice softer than its usual clipped tone as she noticed the way Reid fell into himself.

After a moment, his fingers loosening their hold on the ball, he said, "He would say things like I was suffering from paranoid schizophrenia and had created a world that didn't really exist. He would talk about treatment options, he even prescribed me medicine. He'd bring me food on a tray, like they do in hospitals, too."

Sinking back into that place, where the world was separated by a screen, his words came back to him as nothing but white noise, the murmured accusations rattling and fuzzy in his mind. He wasn't sure if it was the extra medication that had made it so easy to dissociate, or simply just a learned mechanism. Either way, he was thankful for it, knowing full well that beyond his veil, his pulse and heart beat sped up dramatically as his blood, fevered and pulsing, coursed through his body. His jaw, ankles and wrists would clench while his fingers would fidget with his sleeve or the stress ball, which was currently crumpling into an indented form in his palm, slick with sweat.

Reminding himself to breathe, he trained his eyes on his polished shoes, letting himself sink deeper into his fabricated world that offered solace in this entropy ridden moment.

He was sitting in the cabin of the jet, engaged in a game of poker that he was- inevitably- winning. He was sitting on the couch in his mother's room, listening to her read Chaucer, believing him to be her lecture class as opposed to her son. He was in his apartment, curled up in his favorite armchair- the overstuffed one with an indent that molded perfectly around his small form- reading a book and drinking coffee while Doctor Who played in the background, a soothing and familiar soundtrack to his happiness. He was...

He was in the court room, sitting witness to a murder trial in which he was a victim.

_'Funny,' _he thought dryly. _'It's not often that the victim of a murder trial can be witness to it.'_

Sighing, he looked at Angela, waiting for the next question.

Not disappointing, she then asked, "So, he acted like the doctor working your case?"

"Yes."

"Did he do anything else, something that a normal doctor wouldn't?"

Something seemed to get caught in his throat, feeling remarkably like a lump of undigested bread, stuck in his esophagus. He swallowed, but he was unable to push the cluster down, his throat bruising with the effort. Desperately, he looked over to his team, his eyes falling on Hotch and begging him for help. It was not plausible, he knew. There was no way Hotch could impart any words of guidance to him, no way he could lend him some of his strength.

_'Stupid laws of physics,' _a part of his mind mumbled angrily as he continued to look at Hotch, his breath getting caught in his throat when he met the man's eyes. The dark eyes seemed to sear into his vision, melting away anything else that might've surrounded them. Had he ever seen so much emotion come from that man? He was so boggled by the sheer intensity of the emotions reflected to him, he was unable to give them a name.

If it weren't for Hotch letting his eyes stray away Reid's gaze, he would've forgotten about the trial entirely. But he didn't. Jumping, startled, he looked back at Angela, closing his eyes for a moment to compose himself.

His nails were digging so deeply into the ball he was cutting through the coating, but he managed to take a shuddering breath before saying, "If I refused to cooperate with what he told me, he would either drug me or...torture me, depending on the severity of what I did."

There. He said it. Breathing easily, he could feel himself sink like jelly into the uncomfortable seat.

But it wasn't over.

"If you could, please, Agent, describe the torture you went through at the hands of-"

"OBJECTION!" Olivera roared, rising to his feet and turning his eyes to the Judge. "Your Honor, I fail to see how the manner of torture is an accurate depiction of my client's ability to be held responsible for his crimes."

Angela shook her head. "The behavior and manner of the tortures can indicate Andrew's cognitive process; it is an entirely admissible question to ask."

The judge didn't answer, his left hand reaching up as he tapped his index finger thoughtfully against his chin. His eyes were glazed over in thought and Angela tapped her heeled foot in annoyance, her arms folding tighter around her chest.

Eventually, he sighed and turned his attention to Hotch. "Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Hotchner, if I were to ask for your honest opinion on the importance of the manner of the tortures, would you be able to provide it, unbiased?"

Hotch nodded, not letting his eyes stray to Reid, who was busying himself with picking at the torn cover of the stress ball. "Yes, your Honor."

Judge Philips nodded, waving a hand for him to begin. Rising to his feet, Hotch said, "Certain actions involving a crime are indicative of what we called organized behavior. Behavior of this type is seen in someone exhibiting forethought and planning before executing a crime. In instances of torture, an organized person will come prepared with devices to be used, as well as a goal in mind, or something they wish to gather from the torturing. A disorganized person would act violently, lashing out and using anything that is on hand- a knife, gun or slab of wood."

Hotch sat himself down as the older man nodded. Turning to Angela, he said, "I'll allow it, but your witness must understand that he is under Oath and subject to charge of perjury should he be dishonest in anyway." As he said this, he turned to look at Reid, his voice growing louder and louder until the young genius tore his eyes away from the stress ball and looked up at the judge, his eyes wide and watery.

"Understood," Angela said, smiling in triumph as Olivera grumbled angrily and plopped back down to his seat. She turned her attention back to her primary witness and asked, again, "Could you please detail the torture for us now, Agent?"

It took a second for Reid to nod, his head making the tiniest of movement before letting his eyes fall down to the ledge of the witness stand, a place for his hands to rest should he choose. Tapping his foot anxiously against the podium landing, he said, "The first time he did anything other than drug me when I was in his...when he captured me, was after I refused to acknowledge that everything was a fantasy. I..." he shifted, rising and sitting back down on the seat only to repeat the movement. Biting his lip, he said, "I was tied down to the hospital bed, m-my wrists were. I had tried to tell him that if he let me go, I could get him the recognition he wanted, and he tried to tell me it was fake. I denied it, and he slapped me. Then he took a knife out of a bag, saying it was for my own good. He...He called it...reinforcement."

He stopped, letting his words hang in the air as the memory assaulted him with perfect clarity. _'No!' _he told himself, forcefully. He needed to stop, needed to bring himself back to the world around him. He couldn't get lost in his thoughts, not when so much rested on his words.

His nails dug deeply into the stress ball as he buried his teeth into his lower lip until it stung, the copper taste- like a penny- staining the inside of his cheeks. The pain was enough to bring him back as he winced, hoping too late that he hadn't cut so deeply he would need stitches. But he opened his eyes, unaware he had closed them in the first place, and grimaced through the searing pain in his lip. He let his lip slip from his hold on them with his teeth, fighting the urge to hiss when the air hit his minor injury.

Unaware of the struggle he was undergoing, or too caught up to care, Angela plowed on, her questions the equivalent of throwing more and more objects at Reid and expecting him to juggle them with ease.

"What did he do with this knife?"

Didn't she see how uncomfortable he was?

Swallowing what was easily two teaspoons of blood, he said, "He stabbed my thigh. To the bone."

"And that was all he did to you? For the first session of torture, at least."

_Was that all? _Did it really seem so trivial, so unimportant? _'That's not what she means, and you know it,' _he scolded himself as he willed out the answer, the taste of metal on his lip as he spoke.

"Yes."

"And what about the second torture session?"

"He stabbed my shoulder." He shifted again in the seat- why was it so uncomfortable?- as he let his fingers burrow so deep into the ball that he felt them probe against his palm on the other side. The memories kept bubbling, deep in the pit of his stomach, and as the surface evaporated, gas bubbles filled with snapshots- snippets of that week- rose upwards, popping in front of his mind and attacking him with images. Images of Andrew looming over him. Images of the hallucinated visages of his friends, insulting him. Images of Varney...

"What else?"

What else? What else did happen in that one particular instance? His memories and thoughts seemed to intervene with each other, like a race in which several cars weaved in and out of the slower ones. He couldn't keep track, the neatly organized filing cabinet was spilling over with everything that had been so meticulously placed. He couldn't remember. His damn memory had failed him!

He remembered the knife being dragged down his legs- but in what order did that occur? Or the feeling of the blow torch, as flames licked over his bloodied soles?

Air was escaping the room, thinning out so quickly as though it were water down a drain. Did no one else feel it? Was he the only one unable to find a breath to hold onto?

A whine escaped his lips, now tacky and wet with blood. He was no longer sinking willingly into that place where no one saw or heard him, but falling into it, headfirst. And before he landed, settling into the pool and resting until it was safe to reemerge, hand reached out and grabbed at him- hands of all things!- fingers snatching and clutching, bones and tendons and blue veins sticking out from the back of the hand, grotesque and rising like high mountains on otherwise flat plateaus. He tried to avoid the hands, attempted to crawl back up or form a parachute to trail out behind him, but gravity took over and he crashed into the pit of hands.

So many hands.

They clutched at him, pulling at his sleeves, his pant leg, his tie, anything and everything they could to keep him down, to keep him submerged, to keep him away from the trial.

xXx

He had been doing so well.

Hotch had watched with what could be called pride as Reid pushed himself through each question. He watched as the young genius struggled to answer the questions through the storm of memories that he knew were battling with his mind. He could see the way he pointedly avoided looking in Andrew's direction and how, when he did look up at the sea of faces when answering, his eyes were glassy, as though he wasn't truly behind them.

It was, in one word, admirable to see him fight and struggle with himself to give the answers necessary. But it became clear to Hotch he would not be able to see his testimony through to the end. Maybe it was when he saw the frantic, almost feral, look of need and help in those hazel eyes when Reid turned to him. Or maybe it was when he could see the agent wince and the tinge of red on his lips. Either way, it wasn't all too surprising when, instead of telling Angela what had happened during the second torture, he looked outwards, the same glassy-eyed expression in place.

He was shaking, his shoulders trembling as he swallowed, almost compulsively, and moved around in the seat in discomfort.

Angela stared at him, slowly becoming aware of what was happening as she looked over at the judge, arms snapping to her sides now as she said, "Your Honor, my Witness appears to need a moment to gather himself. He is currently suffering from a severe case of PTSD as well as several other anxiety disorders." She looked over to the jury as though adding, _'I hope you understand that all of this is because of the man you decide the fate of,' _before letting her sharp eyes rest once more at Judge Philips, awaiting his awaiting.

Sparing a glance to Reid, who was still sitting, the picture of calm yet unfocused from the world, he sighed sympathetically. "The court will allow for a recess," he said.

The instant the words were said, Hotch jumped to his feet, striding confidently over to the witness stand and gripping onto the ledge, leaning in close to Reid and whispering so only he could hear him.

"Reid? Reid, it's me, Hotch."

His brows knitted, the skin folding as the younger man clenched his jaw.

"Reid, you need to come back."

His grip on the stress ball loosened.

"Please, we need to have your lip looked out."

Hotch was aware of the urgency growing in his voice, fully aware that he became more and more panicked. He wouldn't dare touch Reid in this state, but he needed to remove him from the witness stand. Bouncing on the balls of his feet, Hotch growled in frustration as he leaned in even closer, inclining his head to get a better look at him.

"Spencer, we're all waiting on you."

He sighed in relief when he watched the man blink, shaking his head blearily as he looked up in disorientation. "Hotch?" he asked, his voice sounding forced as though he were trying to speak through a glob of tears. He looked up at his boss, his eyes no longer glassy but still covered in a sheen of tears and unidentifiable emotions, a sort of emptiness and confusion to them. After a moment, he said, "I don't...I don't feel good."

That was no surprise. Not only was he in emotional duress, but his lip was now bleeding profusely, the crimson liquid filling his mouth and slipping down his throat. Cringing, Hotch realized how that must taste and motioned for Reid to step down. "Come on, we have a recess."

The words didn't register fully for a moment, but when they did, Reid shook his head, blinking rapidly as he leaned forward and gripped the ledge. He pulled himself up and stepped down, sucking his lower lip into his mouth to conceal the blood. He hissed as his tongue came into contact with the small cut, but continued to lap up the blood anyway.

His legs didn't even feel like they were connected to his body as his he walked with Hotch down through the benches and out the door. He was floating- floating far away even though he was being pushed down onto a bench in the hallway, Dr. Ostheim coming to squat in front of him, lifting his pant legs as he did so.

"Is he alright?" JJ asked, standing beside Morgan and Rossi at a safe distance away from the doctor so he could examine the genius.

Latex covered fingers reached up and clamped down on the lower lip, his thumbs and middle fingers holding the bleeding tissue out as his index fingers lightly probed and prodded the cut. He gently pulled onto the edges of the cut, apologizing when Reid winced and shirked back. After a moment, he let his hands fall and said, "It's pretty deep, but it shouldn't require stitching." He then grabbed his briefcase, awkwardly shifting his weight so as to remain in front of Reid, and pulled into his lap, opening it and producing a small first aid kit.

He looked up, his eyes meeting Reid's as he grinned. "Always have to be prepared, right?"

Even if Reid did feel the desire to speak, he wouldn't have, afraid of letting blood drip everywhere.

But his lips were pried open anyway as Dr. Ostheim slipped several folded pieces of gauze in between his lip and his teeth, causing a lump to form in his mouth. He could feel the gauze become saturated with his blood, but the layers of it would prevent it from soaking through too soon or quickly.

"I'm not exactly the best medical doctor- as you know, I'm a psychologist- but your lip should be fine, it will just sting for awhile," the doctor said, smiling as he grabbed a small flashlight. "Prepare yourself." He pressed the button, shining the bright circle of light into the hazel eyes, which Reid was trying not to close, pulling away unconsciously as he resisted the urge to blink.

After what seemed like too long for the genius, the light turned off and he blinked, bright red and orange blotches swimming into his vision.

"Well?" Hotch asked, slipping his hands into his pockets as he tore his gaze away from Reid and looked at Dr. Ostheim.

"Just a little confused. He was suffering a flashback, I think," he answered, sending a sideways glance to the genius, who was trying to talk through all the layers of medical gauze that stuck to his gums. Using his tongue, he pushed down on the material experimentally and looking up everyone for the briefest of seconds before he offered a weak, strained smile, letting his eyes fall down to the floor.

"I'm shorry," he mumbled, the gauze disrupting his speech.

"You have nothing to be sorry for," Hotch said, igniting a wave of nodding heads and agreeing words from the group of agents surrounding them.

"Hotch is right, man. You did better than most people would have," Morgan chimed in.

"You did really well, Reid. You kept your cool," Emily added.

"I'm proud of you." That was JJ.

"There's no way those jurors will feel sympathetic for that slimy son of a bitch." Garcia.

"Your testimony was more than enough to get him into jail, where he belongs," Rossi finished off.

And just like that, a new round of agreements- this one centering around the man being thrown in jail for sure- began. Reid shook his head, the chorus of voices overwhelming. He wanted to plug his ears, he wanted to go somewhere quieter, he wanted...he wanted...

"Shut up!" he yelled, pulling the bloody gauze from his mouth so that he could speak without the lisp it created. The saturated material sat nestled in his clenched fist, the blood smearing all over his fingers as he felt more blood from the wound seep into his mouth.

Startled, the team and Dr. Ostheim turned to look at him, their eyes wide and questioning.

"Reid-" Morgan tried to say, but he was cut off as the young agent shook his head and began speaking over him.

"Just...stop, okay? I don't care anymore if he gets locked up in a hospital or a prison cell. It's all the same, isn't it? It's not like either of the facilities will just let him walk out of their door, so why should it matter?" He paused, swallowing the blood that had gathered in his mouth. Thankfully, it seemed the flow was settling down, as the substance felt thinner and had taken longer to collect.

Garcia moved closer, saying, "Don't you think he deserves prison though?"

Reid jumped to his feet now. "Why should I care? It's not like it's going to change anything. I'll still be...be this!" He gestured to himself, his hands waving up and down. "Whether he's in an asylum or a cell, I'm still going to be messed up."

He stopped speaking, letting quiet fall over his team as they stared at him, their mouths slung open. Uncomfortable under their gaze, he balanced his weight between his feet, turning his eyes down to the parquet floor. He didn't know what exactly had set him off, truth be told. He hadn't even been aware he was the one yelling at everyone to shut up until they looked at him, confused and not sure of why he was getting so worked up. But, quite simply, he didn't care. How could he? It seemed that there were so many things more important than making sure a man who may or may not be insane gets into a certain place, where, either way, he will be locked up. How could he care about this man's inevitable, yet slightly ambiguous, future, when Reid was still unsure about his own?

"I...I want to go back to the hotel," he said after a long while, deciding that, at the moment, there was nothing more he needed than a hot shower and long nap.

"But the trial-" he heard someone start to say - Angela, he thought - but he interrupted her.

"It will be fine without me. I'm a mental patient, no one will question it." He was thankful he didn't look up, certain that he would have watched his teammates cringe at the wording and the term he had used to define himself. In reality, he knew he was more than just a stigmatized patient, but he was not in the mood to argue with the sharp-tongued prosecutor. He really just wanted to be anywhere but there at the moment.

Someone sighed. "If you really think it's best." It was Hotch.

"I do."

"I'll take him back," JJ volunteered, stepping forward so that she was standing beside Reid. She reached out her hand, her fingers brushing his knuckles in feather light touches before she pulled her hand back, deciding that now, after his flashback, would not be the best time to touch him. So instead she stood beside him, waiting patiently for Morgan to fish the keys to their hotel room out of his pocket.

He handed them over and she turned to Hotch, who had started speaking. "He can have another dose of the anti-anxiety if it gets too bad, but only one more. He can also have some Seroquel if he can't get to sleep, the doses are naturally really low. We'll call you and let you know what happened once we're done for the day."

She nodded, thanking him as she followed Reid out the door.

xXx

"How fast does it work?" JJ asked as she watched her friend pop the little blue pill called Seroquel into his mouth, trailing it with a cup of water that he drank half of. He placed the glass back down on the bedside table, shrugging slowly.

"Really fast. I don't think I've ever slept so deeply, either," he answered, glancing up at her with misty eyes.

She was sitting opposite him on Morgan's bed- something she felt very awkward about- and he was sitting on his own, his hands gripping the edge of the bed as though he would fall off at any given moment. Go flying up and up and away, never to be seen or heard from again.

"I'm sorry," he said, breaking the tense silence.

JJ narrowed her bright blue eyes as she tilted her head to the side, blonde hair falling across her shoulder. "Sorry? For what?"

He let his eyes slip down to the floor as he turned and started arranging the pillows, raising himself off the mattress so he could pull the covers back. "For messing up the trial," he mumbled, slipping under the blanket and pulling it up to his knees.

She frowned, letting her eyes soften in sympathy. "Spencer, you did very we-"

"Don't. Not you, JJ," he begged.

She stopped speaking, her mouth agape.

It wasn't necessarily what he had said that stopped her in her tracks, but how he said it. The words were said in a sigh, breathy and exhausted. He sounded, not broken, but just unwilling to fight or listen anymore. Like his entire mind and body were moments from sleep, and not because of the medicine slowly working its way through his system.

Swallowing, she asked, "What do you mean?"

He stared at the silver pillow, frowning. "Everyone keeps saying that I'm strong, and that they've never seen anyone with as much courage as me." He paused, taking the opportunity to turn and look up at her, his eyes wide, the darkness that was always around his eyes like a permanent bruise stood in stark contrast to the rest of him. Before she even had a chance to respond, to tell him that he _was _strong and _did _have a lot of courage, he continued, saying, "But they don't really think that. I know they don't, because they're treating me like I'm going to...going to break!"

He huffed in exasperation as he shook his head. "They act like I'm a delicate little child who's going to shatter at the slightest movement. And I know I haven't been handling this well, but..." Sighing, he closed his eyes as he pressed his lips together, his shoulders and face trembling. "How can they say how strong they think I am when they won't even treat me like they used to."

JJ sat in silence, her hands slowly and absentmindedly smoothing over the folds in her dress pants. She didn't know what to say.

Well, that wasn't entirely accurate.

She _did _know what to say, she just knew Reid wouldn't want to hear it. He wouldn't want her to apologize, he wouldn't want her to say that they were just being careful, he didn't want her to say he really _was _strong. And those were the only things she could think to say. So, with nothing else, she sat in the quiet room, her hands running up and down her own thighs.

"You know," he started, laughing slightly as he smiled at her. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but I actually miss Morgan making fun of me. He's made some jabs here and there, but nothing like he used to."

She raised a plucked brow as she laughed. "You _want _Morgan to tease you?"

He grinned. "I never liked what he said, sometimes it could really hurt, but...at least, he wasn't afraid to hurt me." His wide grin faltered, a frown taking over as he sighed, grimacing as he swallowed hard. "It would just be easier for things to seem...normal if everyone else was acting normal too. I know I don't make any sense but-"

"No," she said softly, almost dreamily as she found a loose thread from her blouse and began picking at it. "No, I understand."

That was exactly how she felt when her sister died. Everyone would always tell her they were sorry, that it was so unfortunate. They would fuss over her and the rest of the family, assuaging their worries and anxieties. _'__How could anyone have known?' 'She always seemed so happy.' 'It's not your fault- no one saw it.' _And then, when the concerns were pushed away, she would hear new statements. _'It will get better.' 'You'll move on.' 'You've been handling this so well!' _Right afterwards, they would turn around and contradict themselves by treating her as if the very act of breathing could harm her.

_'Don't worry about your homework, I'll talk to your teacher.'_

_'You don't have to do your chores today.'_

_'Go take a nap or watch some television- I can do this on my own, dear.'_

It was truly a maddening thing. How could you feel strong and like your accomplishing something when people all around you are regarding you like a precious glass sculpture, rare yet so very fragile?

"JJ?"

She looked up quickly, her eyes meeting Reid's. For a moment, they simply stared at each other. But then Reid smiled softly, as if he knew what she was thinking and, like her, wasn't sure of what to say. She couldn't help but smile back, sighing in relief that she didn't need to explain herself. Reid was the only person who seemed to know just what to do when words wouldn't work, at least in this instance.

He yawned, rubbing his eyes sleepily.

JJ chuckled.

"Is it working?"

"Mhm," he answered, nodding as he closed his eyes sleepily, only to open them again.

"Do you want me to leave so you can sleep? My room's right across the hall," she asked, unable to hide her smile when he started to lower himself down onto the mattress, his hips twisting as he rested on his back but kept his knees together and lying on their side.

He grumbled incoherently.

Stifling her chuckles with a hand, she stood up from Morgan's bed and hovered over Reid, asking, "What did you say?"

"Dun matt'r," he murmured, falling closer and closer to a deep sleep. She sighed, knowing she would not receive a clear answer from him in this state. It was really quite endearing, to see him so tired. His hair, damp from his shower not too long ago, was shaggy and mussed up even more from the pillow, his eyes twitching slightly behind his lids. His lips were parted slightly, his nostrils flaring with his breaths as his chest rose and fell in a slow and calm motion.

"Spence?" she asked, her voice nothing more than a whisper.

When he didn't respond, she could only come to one conclusion- he was fast asleep.

Smiling, she folded her arms over her chest as she let a small chuckle escape. He wasn't exaggerating when he said the Seroquel was fast-acting.

She sighed as she looked at Morgan's bed, the blankets slightly ruffled from where she had rested, and wondered if she should stay or go to her own room, checking on him every so often. Biting her lip, she looked back at the sleeping genius, smiling wide at the sight. In the short time that she had had her back to him, he had managed to wriggle further under the covers, the duvet now tucked under his chin. He was twisted more to the side, his hands hiding beneath the blanket and wrapped around the fabric at his chin. If she listened closely, she could even hear the soft sounds of him breathing.

"I think I might need to borrow some of those pills, Spence," she said quietly, shaking her head as she laughed softly and sat herself down on the bed. _'I should stay here in case he has a nightmare,' _she thought, biting her lip and closing her eyes as she realized exactly what she was doing. She was coddling him, acting like he needed someone to wait on him in case he broke and needed to be put back together. She was doing just what he said he didn't want anyone to do.

But how did he expect her, or anyone, to act like they did before? How could they overcome the guilt, self-loathing and anger so quickly? How could they push away the fear they harbored for Reid when he had been so close to falling away from them forever?

It was like having Reid fall from a cliff, plummeting to an unmerciful crash of waves and jagged rocks, and the only thing to save him was a rope connected to a harness. They had grabbed the rope at the last minute and, after struggling and working harder than they ever had, they managed to pull him up, bloodied and scarred, but safe nonetheless. And, too afraid to make such a close call again, they all kept a strong and sturdy grip on the rope, never letting Reid wander too close an edge.

They couldn't help it- it was a learned instinct.

Protect him.

Keep him from needing help in the first place.

It was a lesson learned too late.

Sighing, she slipped her feet out of her heels and pulled her bag towards her, deciding that now would be an opportune time to get some work done. Using a large folder of paperwork as a surface, she began filling out forms and reviewing records, a tedious but necessary job.

It was nearly two hours later when the till of her phone broke the silence. Swearing, she pushed the pile of paper off her lap and twisted around, frantically reaching for her phone before it could wake up Reid. Flipping it open and pressing it to her ear, she jumped from the bed and quietly but quickly made her way onto the balcony.

"Jennifer Jareau," she answered, closing the glass door behind her with a click.

She immediately regretted her decision to take the call outside, her skin prickling with cold and forcing her to fold into herself to keep warm. But Morgan's voice managed to distract her from the chill.

"The trial just ended for the day."

She swallowed nervously. "And?"

A sigh. "Angela was able to work with Reid's panic attack, but then Olivera tried to say Reid was too incompetent to be a viable source of information. Not really sure which way they jury will go, to be honest."

"Do you think Reid was right?" she asked, biting her lip. "That it doesn't matter where he goes?"

Morgan paused on the other line, carefully weighing the options before speaking. "If he goes to the hospital, he can be cleared at any time. It's not like jail- if you could commit the crime once, you could commit it again. But in the hospital...if you commit the crime because you're sick, then when you're better they could let you go."

"Would they really let someone like Wright go?" she asked, incredulous.

"They could. It would be inhumane otherwise, if they deem him healthy."

She scoffed. "Inhumane? He's the one they're concerned with being treated humanely?"

"I know, Jay. I agree with you, we all do. But that's how it works, as much as I hate to admit it. Which is why we need to make sure this bastard ends up where he belongs."

She nodded, knowing he couldn't see her. It seemed so wrong, for someone like _him_ to be given a chance at life simply because he was deemed 'healthy'. But something didn't feel right. Frowning, she asked, "Didn't you think Reid would have known that?"

"I think he did, but didn't want to acknowledge it. He's going through a lot- he doesn't want to admit that he could be put in danger again so easily."

"No one does."

A moment of silence passed before Morgan spoke again.

"How is Pretty Boy?"

"Sleeping," she answered, smiling. But her smile faltered as she thought back to their prior conversation. "You know, I've been thinking..."

"About?"

She bit her lip. "I think it will be better if we try to give Spence some space." Before he could respond, she quickly added, "Not leave him alone type of space. But...I think he's getting annoyed. Like he feels that we're babying him."

She could almost feel him analyzing her words in the way that had become unintentional to the profilers. "You think, or he said this to you?"

"Either way, I think we should all lay off on the mothering, okay?"

He chuckled. "Alright, I hear you."

"So, are you guys on your way back to the hotel?"

Hesitating, Morgan sighed and she almost imagined him running a hand over his bald head. "Actually, we need to go over the discovery(1) to some of Varney's case and get prepared for that too. The Prosecutor for that case- some guy named Phelps- is letting us sit in on it. Is that okay with you?"

She nodded vigorously, more than willing to step aside from anything having to do with Varney in the time being. But then, realizing that she was unseen to the dark-skinned agent, cursed her stupidity and said, "Yeah, I'm fine. Spence and I will probably grab some pizza or something when he wakes up."

"Sounds good, JJ. Call us if you have any problems, alright?"

"I will. Call me when you find out everything."

"Will do."

They said their good byes and hung up, JJ tucking her phone into the crook of her arm as she hugged herself tighter, shivering against the cold. Fall was turning quickly into winter, it seemed.

_'And it's only the end of September,' _she thought, shaking her head as she turned to enter the hotel room once more. _'End of September. Spence's birthday is coming up soon, then, isn't it?' _She was quickly disrupted from her long list of birthday gift ideas by the hazel eyes looking up at her, hazy from sleep.

"Oh, Spence...I didn't wake you did I?" she asked, guiltily approaching the genius's bed and sitting down on the side of it, turning to look at him.

He smiled tiredly. "No. Your phone did." His voice was groggy and thick with the overtones of drowsiness, making him reach up for the glass of water, which he downed.

She offered an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry. I tried to answer it as quick as possible."

He waved her words away as he settled back down on his pillow. "Don't worry about it. I'm sure I'll pass out soon enough anyway," he said, laughing dryly. When JJ frowned, knitting her brows, he sighed and added, "I never wanted to live my life by a regime of pills, you know."

"But Spence, it's better for you this way," she said, lowering her voice so it was more soothing.

He turned his head to side, diverting his eyes as he mumbled, "It was better for my mom, too."

She swallowed nervously, once more unsure of what to say. She knew his fear- everyone did, especially now, after Andrew had exploited it. But why couldn't he understand that he and his mom were different? He was on the medications temporarily, and for a treatable illness. The exact opposite of his mother's situation.

"Do you...do you think she'll be mad at me? "

Startled by the sudden question, she felt her eyes narrow in curiosity. "Think who'll be mad at you, Spence?"

He waited a moment before answering quietly. So quietly, JJ found herself leaning in only inches away from him to hear him say, "My mom. I haven't written to her at all since...since before. Will she be mad at me?"

She knew it was stupid- knew it was completely unjustified, dangerous even, considering how sensitive Reid had become. But she couldn't help herself. At those words her heart just melted, her arms dying and needing to reach out to him like one would to a child just roused from sleep by a horrific nightmare. And before she could even register what she was doing, stop herself, she lied down beside Reid and wrapped her arms around him, pulling him into an embrace. He stiffened against her touch and even shrank back slightly, a low whimper escaping his lips.

That was when her senses came to her- too late, she knew. She was ready to pull away from him and apologize over and over again when she felt it.

He relaxed in her arms and even reciprocated the gesture, wrapping his right arm around her and slipping his left arm underneath her body so as to properly hold her, burying his face into the crook of her neck. Thankful that she hadn't frightened him or triggered any unwanted flashbacks, she sighed and began to rub his back slowly.

"Thank you," he murmured.

She didn't say anything, just let her hand continue to trace circles on his back as she closed her eyes and together they fell asleep.

xXx

**Author's Note:****Discovery (1)- The discovery is pre-trial, where all the evidence working against the Defendant is revealed to both parties so that it may be used in the proceeding trial.**

**Before you guys want to put my head out on a stick (and I'm sure some of you do) I thought, realistically, Reid would have difficulties in giving his testimony. But! I'm sure that the end of Varney's trial will more than make up for it. Yes...?**

**Ah, we'll see.**

**Also! A special thanks to my BETA- TheMidnightOwl! All of the correct grammar and punctuation and whatnot is all because of her! **


	32. Chapter 32

**Disclaimer:****Criminal Minds and all its associated characters are property to CBS and no profit is being made from this story. Neither do I own the rights to Shel Silverstein's poem "I'm Being Swallowed By A Boa Constrictor" or Shakespeare's _Hamlet_.**

**Chapter Thirty-Two: Like Alice**

_"But I don't want to go among mad people," Alice remarked.  
>"Oh, you can't help that," said the Cat: "we're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad."<br>"How do you know I'm mad?" said Alice.  
>"You must be," said the Cat, "or you wouldn't have come here." <em>

_-_Alice's Adventure's in Wonderland, _Lewis Carroll _

Two days.

It took two days for the jury to deliberate.

Two days for them to reach a decision.

Two days for them to write Andrew's fate.

Two days for them to call everyone back in, for the sole purpose of hearing the conclusion, to learn which side of the battle had won. _'It takes only one,'_ Hotch had said, when all the closing arguments had been handed in and when the court had been handed over to the twelve men and women. _'Only one juror for the rest to rethink everything.'_

And, it would seem, that one juror held out for two days.

But the question wasn't regarding the stubbornness or persuasiveness of one or more of the jurors, but in which way the rest had swayed. Would Andrew be excused of his crimes, due to a diseased mind, or would he be punished like all the others? It appeared that the answer to that entirely more relevant question had attracted many people, as the courthouse had never been more full on that day that everyone was called in. Reporters crammed into the back, microphones and cameras taking the place where their heads should have been, wires wrapped around each other and entangling the separate groups into one. Journalists sat closer, some wielding recorders and others, preferring the efficiency of shorthand notes, balanced notepads on their knee as they held their pens between their fingers.

In the first two benches, those most directly tied to the crime and the perpetrators were placed, given a first row seat to the downfall or ascendance of the defendant. Nearly shoulder to shoulder in all the other benches, the BAU team were given a slightly larger amount of space to consume- mostly, of course, because Hotch insisted that there be enough room for Reid to at least sit without being crammed between two other people. _'He deserves to see the verdict,' _he defended to the Bailiff. _'And suffering a panic attack because he was forced to sit too close to people would prevent that.'_ Initially angry and put-off by the obvious excuses others were making for him, Reid had no desire to stop Hotch or to even tell the Bailiff to ignore the request. Because, if he were being honest with himself, he was too grateful to his boss for arranging it.

But still, it grated on his nerves.

JJ and Morgan flanking either side of him, and pushed to the far end like he had been for all the other days of the trial, Reid sat on the bench with his hands idly tossing the stress ball back and forth. He had mused on getting Henry a new one before he went back to the hospital, as he had sufficiently damaged the one he had been given. With the latex covering peeling back and revealing the mustard yellow foam beneath in multiple places, it seemed like a good idea.

"Relax, Spence," JJ whispered to him, her breath hot against his ear.

The hair on the back of his neck rose at the feeling and he felt himself shift slightly closer to her, telling himself it was because he was cold and his body was attracted to the warmth she gave off.

"Just a little nervous is all," he said, surprising himself with how calmly he spoke. Nervous wasn't quite the word that fully described the way he was feeling. The fluttering wings of the proverbial butterflies that seemed to be made of steel as they flapped painfully around his stomach, giving him the sensation of vertigo attested to that fact. His digestive tract was making uncomfortable hitching and contracting motions, fighting down the growing nausea, as his skin seemed to crawl. Tiny, microscopic cells that made up the tissue that made up his skin slunk over his sinewy muscles, his crackling bones, his-

JJ covered his hand with hers, cooling the twitching of his skin somewhat. He turned to look at her, only to find that her gaze was directed to the front of the courtroom. "They're giving the verdict," she said, her voice hushed and spoken in a way that indicated she wasn't giving Reid her full attention. But he had little care for her lack of focus, as he found himself turning in the same direction, watching as a single juror stood.

The juror, a man only slightly older than Reid himself yet dressed in all the finery of a much more experienced gentleman, looked at the judge stonily, his dark hair smoothed back.

"Has the jury reached a verdict?" Judge Philips asked.

The man nodded once, curtly. "We have, your Honor." Clearing his throat, he turned slightly so as to cast his view to Andrew and Olivera, who were standing in wait. "We find the defendant, Andrew Wright, guilty of all charges made against him." Looking down at a piece of paper held in his hands, he then read, "Five counts of murder in the second degree, six counts of kidnapping in the first, six counts of sexual assault in the second..."

His words melted, seeping through the air like grains of sand in between cupped hands. A hum, fuzzy like cotton yet electric like a blown transformer filled Reid's ears, muffling the world around him. The man's mouth continued to move, for all the world seeming like a boring pantomime of a speech to the genius as he reeled, his head spinning with conflicting thoughts.

Guilty.

The word held a certain vindication to it, relief and atonement curling like an angry fist preparing for a fight around his heart. But as the meaning sunk in- the idea of feeling pleasure from a man wilting away in jail- he felt the seat beneath him thin, as though vaporizing into a light mist of barely visible gases. He was seven years old again, sitting in his mother's rumpled bed, curling into the pile of covers that had formed around his small frame. Large glasses with thick prisms were pushed back up along his nose as he stared at her mother, his mouth hung open as he focused only on her words.

Borrowed words.

A leather bound book that read _'Complete Works of William Shakespeare'_ was placed on her propped legs, the pages opened to young Spencer's favorite tale by the famous playwright, _Hamlet_. And so, her deep yet musical voice, rough to any other child yet soothing to her son, rang with the iambic pentameter of speech as she recited the words before her.

"...To cut his throat in the church," she spoke, speaking in the voice that she had claimed to belong to Laertes.

Then, switching to a deeper, gravelly voice that had a slight musical and merry tilt to it, she continued reading as King Claudius. "No place, indeed, should murder sanctuarize; Revenge should have no bounds. But good Laertes-"

Despite having heard the play a thousand times over, and even citing it to memory, for the first time Reid cocked his head and questioned, "I don't get it. I mean, I know that it was a different time and everything, but how could so many people honestly believe killing someone is the best option?"

His mother looked up from her book at him, blinking thoughtfully before smiling. "I would consider it a good thing that you don't understand that, Spencer."

He scrunched his face in thought, the thick-rimmed glasses slipping with the crinkled skin. "Didn't any of them realize that they were only setting themselves up to be murdered by another scorned character?" he asked, sitting up and placing his chin in his hand. While he understood the concept of dramatic irony and knew that his knowledge of the bloody end made him biased, he still could not fathom the sheer ignorance in which each character seemed to shroud themselves with.

Murder was murder. There was no such thing as a justification when it came to matters of harming another human being. Right?

So why did Shakespeare pen so many foolhardy characters who couldn't see this most basic of concepts?

His mother sighed at great length, though it did not appear to be out of impatience or agitation, as she smiled tiredly. "Spencer, as smart as you are, you're still a child," she stated. He bristled, opening his mouth to argue with her- for even though he knew that he still was a child in many ways, he liked to think that his vast knowledge made him more adult-like than his peers. But before he could even formulate a proper argument, she shook her head and said, "There are some things that just can't be learned in books."

At his quizzical glance, she ruffled a hand through his hair tenderly and said, "Some people are blinded by their need for revenge, regardless of how wrong it may seem."

"Like Hamlet?"

She nodded. "Exactly."

But that still didn't quite answer his question. While the madness of a spurned Ophelia- denied love by the single-minded Hamlet- and the tragic death of all those who openly sought their vengeance had solidified this theory, it still just didn't make sense. Yes, Hamlet had let his desire for blood sabotage a romance, taint his mind, and end his life, but why? That was what he didn't understand. Why was killing one man, a murderer though that one man may have been, just cause for all of his problems? It seemed, to young Spencer, that it only worsened them, like opening recently healed wounds.

He sighed, lying back down into the covers against his mother as she continued to read. _'Maybe,'_ he thought as some part of his mind repeated the words from memory with her, _'this is one of those things that can't be learned from a book.'_

The memory of that afternoon was one that had been buried, due to it's seeming unimportance at the time. But now, as Reid watched in silent awe as his almost-murderer was manhandled by the Bailiff to a standing position, it seemed like the only memory that ever mattered.

With the childish innocence that he had never quite seemed to rid himself off, alongside with his strict right-and-wrong morale base, he still could not truly understand what would drive another man to murder.

But he did have a glimpse of the maddening feel of revenge.

In that moment in which he actually felt happiness at knowing Andrew would be locked up, indefinitely, he saw the world as Hamlet did, at one point or another. A world in which karmic action was best left to those impassioned few who deserved to be the cause of the downfall to the one who wronged them. A world in which an eye for an eye was the ruling slogan and where a man could receive joy from another's sorrow, simply because he had been wronged.

It was a world he did not quite enjoy.

"Spence?"

He looked up at JJ, her clear blue eyes cloudy with a cocktail mix of emotions, ranging from joy to relief to concern. Her fingertips hovered over his hand, as though afraid to touch him in such a spacey state, and her light brows dove to the center of her face, the skin wrinkling.

He blinked several times, trying to bring her into focus as he pushed his thoughts away. Sometimes, his own ideas and musings could become so prominent that they placed a shimmering veil between him and the world. A fish-eye like view that distorted everything and kept it from being truly clear.

"You know," he started. "In all the years I've worked for the BAU, I couldn't understand why some people tried to get revenge by killing others. You'd think that, studying the criminal mind, I would know, but I just couldn't get it. Killing someone because you were psychotic or had a personality disorder was different, because those people either don't know right from wrong, or think they're above it and so disregard the law. But I could never see how someone who knew the difference and the consequences went and did something like that anyway.:

JJ narrowed her eyes.

"Spence, you're not...I mean, you don't..."

Hazel eyes widened. "No, of course not! I wouldn't kill anyone," he defended, shaking his head vehemently. "It's just...Hamlet." He said the name, as though it were all the explanation necessary.

"Hamlet? Like, the play?" JJ asked, now raising a brow.

"Yeah. My mom read it to me all the time, and it was my favorite Shakespeare story, probably because it was the only one that was a mystery to me in some way. But as a kid, I never knew why he would sacrifice so much," he said, feeling his words trail off.

Her face lighting up in realization, she nodded and said, "And now you know why someone could be so vengeful as to harm another being?"

He hesitated. "No, but I do know why they might want to."

"You got your revenge though, he's going to jail. Aren't you happy with the verdict?" she asked, her brows creasing in confusion.

Nodding, he looked up to the judge, who was nodding thoughtfully as he gave Andrew's sentence- an accumulative five hundred years in prison, with no chance of parole. "That's what worries me, JJ." His voice was quiet, hushed yet filled with slight tremors.

She sighed, not knowing once more what to say to him. With a strict understanding of right-and-wrong and working in a job such as the BAU, it was difficult for Reid to truly think in the way a criminal might. And when placed in the position of a victim, he complied too thoroughly with his morale to allow any vengeful thoughts to take place. Having seen the result of revenge many times, he was having difficulty accepting the emotion and believing that it made him no better than the UnSubs.

"I'm glad he's away, but in some ways it doesn't seem like it's enough. But whenever I start to think like that, I feel like I'm a bad person," he explained, huddling against the seat as he ducked his head, hiding his face from her view.

Fervently, she shook her head. "No, you're not a bad person, not at all, Spence. Andrew was, and he deserves everything he got," she said, enunciating clearly and placing sharp emphasis on each word as she spoke.

He nodded numbly, deciding he did not want to partake in the conversation anymore. Whether or not she believed it herself, JJ would only press her argument to the point of exhaustion. Even if she did think him horrible and a monster no better than Andrew, she wouldn't say so. There was no reason to continue when the outcome was so predictable.

But he couldn't help but feel guilty knowing he was happy that a man would never see the light of day, knowing he was angry that he would never suffer as much as he did, knowing he was hopeful that he might be harmed by some faceless inmate. It wasn't enough, but he desperately tried to keep himself from thinking that.

He wouldn't become an UnSub guided by hate and revenge.

He wouldn't become a man made cold and hard by injustice.

He wouldn't become a modern-day Hamlet, ruined by his wicked intentions.

xXx

_Reid was lying on top of damp dirt, face down. The smell was natural, but pungent and unpleasant. Earthy and moist, it tickled his nose and he slowly rose himself upwards, his fingers and knees sinking deeper as he did so. But when he looked up to examine his surroundings, he faced a wall of packed dirt. Slimy maggots peeked through the spongy embankment and he lurched, his skin tickling and trembling with the familiar feeling of flesh crawling like insects over his muscles and bones. Gagging at the small yet disgusting creatures, he swiveled around him, searching for a way out. But he was surrounded by dirt, four walls of earth holding him, flecked with brilliantly white, moving spots. Gulping, he raised his head and looked upwards._

_He was in a deep grave, eight feet down into the earth. The mouth opened up to a clear night sky, the jaundice face of the moon shone brightly, eerily, as a painted orb held against a velvety black cloak. Pinpricks of white hot stars twinkled in a pattern, winking at the young man trapped within the hole. _

_His spine shook, rattling within his body as gooseflesh prickled his white skin. While the moon was often the thing of sonnets and romantic idealism, to Reid it was only synonymous with nighttime, and the claustrophobic darkness that came with it. Like a beacon of light to a straying ship, the moon's purpose wasn't to provide a dramatic backdrop to lovers but to guide the lonely and wandering traveler through the otherwise blackened night. But without the yellow glow, the insignificant region- the corner of the universe- would be embraced in darkness. Yet, Reid could not feel grateful to the light of the moon, knowing it was only a trick of the idea- the moon had no light of it's own to offer. _

_Shuffling his feet along the floor of the grave, he closed his eyes and took a deep steadying breath. "_Just because it's dark doesn't mean I'm defenseless,"_ he told himself, exhaling deeply. But the words did little to console him, knowing that just beyond his closed and strained eyelids was night, darkness, and the balustrade of dirt. _

_His eyes opened, slowly and deliberately, as he tilted his head back and looked out through the mouth of the grave. Why was he in a grave to begin with? Surely, he wasn't dead. He ought to have remembered something like that. And besides, he wasn't in a coffin. Snorting, he shook his head as he mused, _'Maybe, I've been captured by another UnSub, one who buries his victims alive.' _A disturbing thought indeed, he was too focused on the spitefulness that had created it- the fact that he always seemed to find himself in the hands of some crazy killer. Honestly, how surprised did he deserve to be?_

_Stretching his arms out, he tried to reach up to the lip of the grave, hoping to grip the edge and pull himself out. But his palms and fingers simply fluttered over moist dirt and slimy creatures. Recoiling slightly, his hands seeming to burn with the mucus of the maggots, he bit the inside of his cheeks tightly and clenched his jaw. He reached out once more, this time prepared to touch the creepy-crawlies surrounding him. _

_Like before, he dug his hands into dirt and bugs, wincing but not quite pulling away. _'If I don't look, I won't be as disgusted,'_ he stated to himself, keeping his eyes fixed on the moon- was it getting larger?- as he worked his hands up higher. Maggots or dirt- he did not know which- or even a combination of both slipped down his arm. But he still refused to look, watching as the moon moved ever so closer to the tips of bare trees, naked and hard from the frost of winter. _

_Several seconds later found him straining his shoulders and raised on his tiptoes in his search for the edge that never seemed to come. Something- he tried to convince himself it was dirt, though he logically knew better- moved under his shirt and shimmied down his chest and shoulder blades slowly, painfully slow. Frustrated, he huffed and turned his eyes to the wall he was attempting to climb._

"_Why can't I find the edge?"_ _he growled to no one in particular angrily, his eyes widening when he saw the reason why the edge was eluding him._

_The walls of the grave had risen higher, now surrounding him with intimidating dirt walls of at least nine feet. His breathing hitched. Would it simply grow every time he came closer to the end, keeping him forever away at just several inches short of escape? Deciding to test his theory, he planted his feet firmly on the ground and bent himself at the knees, eyeing the opening that seemed to be taunting him, the moon now so close to the branches he thought that they might poke it and send it whizzing through the sky like a deflated balloon. Clenching his leg muscles, he jumped, propelling himself forward as he grasped out frantically, clawing at the edge that..._

_That did in fact only move further away._

_When he settled down, breathing heavily, the walls were now ten feet._

_He wanted to yell, stomp his foot, shout obscenities, and fall into himself, crying. Would he ever get out? Would he, ironically as it was, die in a grave? What had even lead him to be in this position in the first place?_

_His face was hot from the fear and the anger, despite the biting chill that came from being ten feet underground. He needed to calm himself, he needed to breathe. He needed to find away out._

_CLINK!_

_He paused, his hazel eyes becoming so large they seemed to encompass his whole face. His breath had paused, his heart leaping to his throat as he strained his ears. Someone was out there. Someone was close. Fighting the urge to call out and ask for help, the acrid scent of dirt and blanketing darkness becoming too much and whittling down his logic, he drew himself inward, his arms wrapping around his dirty torso. He peered outward, wandering if the person would help him or hurt him._

_CLINK! _

_The sound of metal against metal pervaded the air, and he shivered at the sharp, grating quality of the noise. But it continued, slicing through the night sky like a blade as it came closer and at more restrained intervals._

_CLINK! CLINK! CLINK! CLINK!_

_His hair was standing on edge, his muscles cringing- but he wasn't entirely sure if it was because of the noise itself, or the foreboding it ignited. As time drew on, he began to realize that the sinister sound of metal was more indicative of a murderer than a hero. His mind began listing off all the items in a killer's arsenal that might make that noise; a knife, a sword, a pick ax, a shovel-_

_Dirt was thrown across the sky and into the grave, falling to a loose pile at his feet. He gaped at it, his lip twitching, as understanding flooded through him- he _was_ being buried._

_The conclusion was met with a shovel full of dirt landing in his hair, small rocks tapping against his skull. Dirt slipped through his locks and down his forehead, falling into his open mouth._

"_Ungh!"_ _he sputtered, his face scrunching in disgust as he spat the dirt out. But even as he did so, dirt continued to fly all around him, covering his feet and cooling his skin. He stumbled backwards, peering upward. Someone was burying him, and quickly, with the dirt somehow filling the grave at a remarkable speed, his feet now buried beneath the earth that came up to his ankles._

_He looked around desperately, needing to find a way out before he was completely buried- the dirt now reaching his knees. His hands reached out to stabilize him against the dirt walls, no longer bothered by the maggots and he tried to scale the grave, pulling himself upward. But when he heard the voice- an oh so familiar voice- taunting him, he froze._

"_Oh, gee, it's up to his knee!" _

_He paled, looking down at the dirt that sullied his khaki pants up to the knee. He began to climb out more hastily, trying to reach the top before the dirt did._

"_Oh, my, it's up to his thigh!"_

_Faster, more desperately, he clawed upward. Was the dirt filling the hole up even faster?_

"_Oh, fiddle, it's up to his middle!"_

_Moving faster._

_Moving harder._

_Grunting in exertion._

_His legs were getting lodged in the packed dirt. He struggled to move them, to break free._

"_Oh, heck, it's up to his neck!"_

_He could see over the edge of the grave, his arms were frantically clawing at the dead and frozen grass. Polished shoes stood directly in front of him, a large mountainous pile of dirt to the left of the man before him. Even as he dug his shovel in and pulled up another heap of dirt to throw into the grave, Reid knew he wouldn't need much more- he was already struggling to free his shoulders._

_The dirt was flung into the grave. He closed his eyes- to avoid having his vision obscured with the soil and in defeat. It would take only a few more throws of the shovel for him to be completely buried. He was finished, it was over. He would die, suffocate in his own grave. But when all seemed still about him- even the wind ceasing to blow- he slowly opened his eyes._

_The shovel was placed directly in front of him now, the metallic glint winking knowingly and menacingly at Reid. Slowly, he raised his head, looking up at the bearer of the shovel and the one digging his grave._

_He rose the shovel several inches, pulling his arms back._

"_Andrew," Reid choked, pleading with the man to help him. Hazel eyes locked on hazel eyes, and Reid gasped, his chest collapsing beneath the mound of dirt pressing into him. Never before had he realized how startlingly similar to Andrew he was; the graying hair, it's natural color now, the hazel eyes..._

_It was like looking into the future, at himself. _

"_Oh, dread," Andrew started, raising the shovel a little more, his shoulders straining as he pulled it backwards. "It's up to his head!"_

_Before Reid could even react, the shovel was swung into the side of his head, cracking his skull. His vision blurred, swimming with stars, as blood trickled from the wound. And he was...falling._

_All the dirt had disappeared from the grave and he was falling into it, going deeper and deeper than he ever had before. Like Alice through the Rabbit Hole, it seemed like he would fall forever, never landing on ground again, growing further and further away from those he loved. _

"_Curiouser and curiouser," he managed to snort, his arms reaching out idly as if to see if, like Alice, he would be able to pull books and items off their precariously held shelves. But he met only dirt and more maggots, eager to slide along his already prickly with gooseflesh skin._

_He continued to fall, for what felt like ages, and when he suddenly landed with a thud on a hard surface, he groaned, his breath escaping him. His eyes closed in pain and he made to rub his face, but his wrist was tied down._

"No!" _he gasped out, his eyes snapping open and widening._

_He was back in his room at Andrew's, his arms held to the railing with metal cuffs and his body covered in nothing but a thin hospital gown. Still covered in dirt and slithering maggots, he felt himself gag, his back lifting from the bed as he dry heaved. He felt sick, he felt disgusting._

_He couldn't be back there. He just couldn't!_

_The lights shut off, shrouding the room in darkness. He whimpered, his eyes wet and his vision blurred from tears. _

"_Nonononono,"_ _he muttered, his body moving frantically as he felt the darkness wrap icy fingers around his neck, choking him._

_But before his last breath could be made, a spotlight turned on, directly over him. Blinking, his eyes unaccustomed to the bright, yellow light looming overhead, he looked around him. Dust motes traveled through the lighted space, shining like small specs of gold only to disappear when they crossed into the darkness. His eyes trailed them, hoping to distract himself from the ever growing dread and horror as his stomach sunk down to the floor, his nerves on end._

_He wasn't sure of how long he sat there, tracing and following the journey of countless motes, when it happened. Hands jumped out at him- hundreds of hands, thousands of splayed fingers. He opened his mouth to scream out, but several of the offending appendages clamped down over his lips, effectively __quieting him._

_He felt the fingers tug at his gown, lifting it up, exposing him, touching him. He gasped and cringed away, trying to burrow into the thin mattress and escape the prying hands. But he couldn't escape them, the bed and restraints kept him in place and they continued to roam over him, delving into his most private areas. Latching into his hair, they pulled on the now-shoulder length curls, long and crooked fingernails scraping into his scalp. His mouth twisted underneath the layers of hands, trying to scream, to shout, to make any sort of noise that would help him._

_Suddenly, the hands retracted, leaping away from Reid as though his body were on fire and they had scorched the sensitive skin of their palms. Skin crawling and lurching from trepidation, the feeling of lingering hands still burning him, he opened his eyes, gasping when he saw Varney standing over him._

_He leered down at him, his lips ripping into a lustful, sinister grin. "Well, well, well. Dr. Reid," Varney sneered as he ran his hands up and down Reid's arms, digging his nails painfully into his skin. "It seems the good doctor is in need of an operation." Flicking his wrists, Varney grabbed the hospital gown- which was bunched up on his hip- and ripped it away from his pale and skinny body._

_Feigning a look of shock, Varney said, "Oh my, it seems we're too late!"_

_The police officer's eyes looked Reid's bare body up and down, coming to a halt on his chest. He grinned, flashing his teeth- each one a sharp and jagged point. Following his gaze, Reid gasped when he saw his torso, his hazel eyes broadening at the sight._

_His skin was flayed, peeled back in a Y incision as though someone had started to perform an autopsy on him. But where his organs should have been still and in the process of decaying, they were vivid in color and pulsing in activity. His heart was beating with vigor, his lungs quickening as his breath sped up, his intestines slowly and just barely quivering. _

_He felt his lips pull back in disgust as he breathed shallowly and quickly, his panic rising._

_This couldn't be happening. He couldn't be dead!_

_Smiling, Varney reached out a hand, his index finger and middle finger extended as the two other fingers and thumb curled into his palm. Slowly but not with hesitation, he placed his fingers inside of Reid's exposed torso, probing him sharply and steadily, his grin growing._

_As fingers dipped into the folding mass that was his intestines, Varney's hand disappearing into the bloody mess, he looked up at Reid, sadistic pleasure dancing in his eyes. And as he continued to invade his body, touching where no man ever had and never should have, the young genius felt a new indignation rise with the bile in his throat. The indignation of being completely and totally violated. _

_He opened his mouth to protest, a scream near close to breaking free from his throat, when he realized that his lips were sewn tightly shut._

"_Mmmrrrmm!" he mumbled, struggling against the thread as he thrashed his legs in desperation. But Varney would not yield, not in the least bit deterred by his movements. He was going deaf from the pounding sound of his blood in his ears, and blind from the accumulative dots marring his vision. But none of it seemed to matter, the panic coming to a dead halt, when he saw Varney pull his hand back out, the still beating tissue that had been Reid's heart held firmly in his palm._

_Varney looked down at him, his face glowing as he gave the pink organ a gentle squeeze. "It belongs to me now."_

xXx

Reid startled, his eyes snapping open as he jumped in bed, his heart thumping wildly in his chest- in his chest! Yes! It hadn't left him at all!

Breathing heavily, he reached a hand out and placed it over his heart, as if to reassure himself that it was still there, and not in Varney's clutches. But it was a silly thing to put stock in such nightmares, no matter how terrifying they might seem. Still, he couldn't help but sigh in relief to know that his heart was still where it should have been, locked away in his chest. And the painful surge of blood pumping through his body was more than enough testament to that.

He gave himself a few seconds, allowing his blood to calm down, where he sat huddled up in his bed, bent at the waist, and his forehead pressed against his raised knees. His hair was short, instead of long and curly like in the nightmare, and he was happy to find that, aside from a thin coating of tacky sweat, his body was clean. There were no maggots slinking along his limbs, no clumps of dirt matted into his hair. He even, foolishly, rose a hand to his chest and felt over his FBI tee shirt, thankful to find that there were no anomalies- just a hard, fleshy surface beneath the cloth.

He wasn't buried alive, he wasn't undergoing an autopsy, and, more importantly, he wasn't with Varney.

"Morning, Sunshine," Morgan called teasingly, making Reid jump with surprise as he walked out of the attached bathroom, a long towel wrapped around his waist. The older man's smile fell however when he saw that pallid tone of Reid's complexion and heard the short and shallow breaths raking through his lungs. Narrowing his eyes in concern, he said, "You alright man? You look like you've seen a ghost."

The young genius just barely resisted the urge to snort- had he been a more poetic man he might've replied with something along the lines of _'A ghost of the past, more accurately.'_ But he wasn't poetic or artistic by any reasoning, and so he simply shrugged and mumbled, "Nothing, really."

Not seeming to believe him, Morgan simply stared at him, or rather, it felt, through him. When it had reached the point that Reid was fidgeting awkwardly under his gaze, his eyes cast down to the bedding and his fingers picking at a tightly wound seam, Morgan sighed and shook his head, turning to the dresser.

"Nightmares, again?" he asked quietly, trying to sound comforting. But there was no comfort that could be offered in those words- words that made the younger man shrink into himself with shame, knowing that this would forever be his place in the team. Knowing that he would forever be the one with constant nightmares, the one that always needed to be handled with care.

Still, he managed to nod, and even more surprisingly, managed to say, "Yeah. A bad one, actually."

And it was the truth. While all of his nightmares were, like nightmares tend to be, bad, this one was particularly terrifying. Normally, they consisted of previous crime scenes merging with the memories of imprisonment- stuff he had seen before, and stuff he was used to seeing. But he was not accustomed to seeing his own chest open to the world, his skin peeled away and stapled back to reveal his organs. He was not accustomed to being in an endless grave, only able to find his way out when he had been sufficiently buried. He was not accustomed to seeing things that didn't make sense, things that didn't and couldn't happen. His nightmares were almost always a rendition of his memories- perfect and without logical flaw. Except, of course, for this one.

"You want to talk about it?" Morgan asked, his tone suggesting that, even though he wanted to offer help, he wouldn't feel quite comfortable with it. Reid couldn't help but smile, if only for a fleeting moment.

"No, it's fine. I think I just need to shower and have some coffee."

He stood from the bed, hoping his wide-leg pajama pants would hide the shaking and unsteady limbs from view. But when Morgan sighed and smiled, he knew he had passed the inspection and would be allowed to leave without further prodding. _'Thank God,'_ he thought, not in the mood to have to deal with the awkward round of questions.

He opened the door to the bathroom, pausing when he heard Morgan speak.

"Oh, don't forget- we have Varney's trial today."

_BANG!_

The door slammed shut into the frame with Reid standing in front of it, his arm outstretched and his breathing even more ragged than it had been only moments before. It seemed that as the days wore on and his mental health was tested, his memory began to fail him, because he had forgotten about that- forgotten about it entirely.

Of course, he knew that it wasn't necessarily that he forgot about the trial made him so stunned by Morgan's words, but more so because he wanted to forget. Despite what his team believed, his memory was only so useful if he chose to search for something- it wasn't alarm activated, acting as an internal clock and reminding him to do certain things, when he needed to do them.

He hadn't wanted to do this, and so his memory seemed to have no problem with letting this little obligation slide through the cracks.

"Reid?" Morgan called, his voice getting high-pitched with worry. "Reid? Are you alright?"

Licking his lips, he responded, "Yeah, I guess I didn't realize how hard I was closing the door." His voice cracked, he fumbled over words- surely Morgan would know he was lying.

He stayed by the door, tentatively waiting for Morgan to come in, shake him, yell at him, demand to know what was wrong. But none of that ever happened. Instead, he heard only the deep voice call to him, "Alright then. I'm ready when you are."

Furrowing his brow, he turned away and began to undress, his legs still trembling. Had Morgan known he was lying, and just decided to give him some time to collect himself? Or was he just getting tired of having to soothe the storm after Reid, and didn't press any further because he didn't want to try to comfort? Didn't care to comfort?

He shook his head. No, of course not. Morgan _did_ care, just like all of his other teammates. He was just giving him some time to cool off. After all, the man was smart enough to realize that the mention of Varney had been the trigger, and he would sit back and wait until Reid felt better.

He sighed as he tossed his clothes to the side and turned on the shower, waiting for the water to heat up. _'I think trusting people again will be the hardest thing to get used to,'_ he thought, idly shoving a hand under the shower head. He watched as beads of water, tepid but slowly getting warming, slipped down the curve of his fingers and palm, sliding down his wrist. _'My fear of hands will be a close second.'_

But he was happy to note that he could at least tolerate JJ's hands and having her touch him- sometimes even welcoming it. Of course, there was still that momentary stiffening, the second in which he recoiled, memories flooding back to him, the urge to pull away. With JJ, though, he was at least able to push all of that aside in order to let her comfort him.

The water at the desired temperature, he retreated his hand and used it to push aside the curtain. He stepped into the tub, but not before glancing at himself in the mirror to make sure his chest was still intact, and his vital organs sealed away.

xXx

"How's Reid doing?" Hotch asked Morgan as he turned his back on the door to the bathroom, the sound of a running shower echoing off the tiled walls.

Morgan shook his head as he threw a white button up over his matching undershirt. "I don't think the trials are what he thought they would be," he answered, shrugging his shoulders as he worked the buttons through their corresponding holes with deft fingers.

Hotch frowned. "What do you mean? Andrew's going to prison. He'd be given a lethal injection if it weren't New York history with Capital Punishment. Or rather, lack there of, for about about fifty years," he said, absently straightening his tie.

"No, not that. I just think he didn't fully understand what seeing Andrew and Varney might do to him. He spent so much time in that hospital with nothing to do but think about what they did to him. In his mind, going to the trial would be beating them. But the reality is that it's just making him worse," the darker agent said through a sigh, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "I knew this would happen, too. That's why I had wanted him to stay back at the hospital and let us tell him what happened."

Hotch pondered this for a moment. "Maybe he had to realize this on his own." At Morgan's quizzical glance, he elaborated. "Did you ever think that maybe Reid wanted to come, not to prove he was strong to Andrew and Varney, but to prove he was strong to us?

"Reid's our biggest academic asset, there's no denying that. But there's also no denying the fact that he isn't the strongest, or the most...coordinated. He was probably thinking, whether or not he knew it, that after everything that happened, we would consider him weaker. And the only to prove he wasn't weak to us was to come out here and stand trial, and act like everything that happened didn't bother him."

Morgan paused in looping his tie, his mouth slung open as he looked at his boss. He hadn't thought of that. Why would he? Reid's mind was a difficult thing to understand, especially when he was determined to keep himself guarded. He knew the young man suffered from a low self-esteem regarding his physical strength, but he never he would feel so emasculated as to prove he had strength to his team- his family.

"But he knows we don't think that way about him," Morgan concluded, uselessly. He of all people knew how little others' thoughts mattered to oneself.

"What Varney did to him," Hotch started, his voice low and his words slow as though he were choosing them carefully and with great consideration, "was for power. You and I both now that when a straight men to assault other men, he's looking for control, not sexual gratification. And he got it. So now, Reid feels even weaker than what he would have if Andrew had been the only one harming him. Because with Varney's attack, he thinks every ounce of masculinity he possessed has been taken from him." He paused, listening to the resonating sound of the water in the shower. "And now, he wants it back."

Morgan nodded as he sat down to work socks over his feet. "And he also wants us to see that he's as strong as possible," he finished.

Of course Morgan knew what the kid was going through- he had been there, himself, hadn't he? He had underwent the touches and abuses of Carl Buford for years, thinking it was what necessary in order for him to move on from the life he lived- the life he believed he was destined to live. He knew as well as Reid what that sort of thing could do to someone.

"You know," he said, his voice hollow as though he weren't so much speaking as he was reciting a memorized prose. "During that case with Owen, I told him that the reason I worked out and tried so hard to be," he paused, searching for words. "Well, _that_ guy was because I didn't want to get bullied."

He clasped his hands together as he propped his elbows up on his knees, his eyes focused on the floor. Hotch regarded him for a moment before sitting down on a nearby armchair, his hands gripping the edge of the armrest. "I know," was all he said to the subordinate profiler, his dark and stony eyes settling on the small kitchenette.

"You should make coffee."

Morgan turned to him, one brow quirked. "I...excuse me?"

One end of Hotch's lips rose in a smile. "Make Reid coffee. He'll appreciate it, and he'll understand it's your way of helping him without babying him."

Opening his mouth to argue, Morgan quickly conceded, remembering JJ's words to him only several days ago. Grumbling, he stood up from his place on the bed and made his way over to the coffee pot.

"Everyone knows the way to a genius's heart is through the coffee filter, Morgan," Hotch said, his small smile growing slightly as the man glared at him over his shoulder.

Morgan scoffed. "Reid's right, you only have a sense of humor when you can taunt someone."

Hotch, if only for a second, had the decency to look indignant.

**xXx**

**Author's Note: So sorry about the long update! There has been some conflicting schedules, and I broke from the guilt and decided to post this! Sorry!  
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	33. Chapter 33

**Disclaimer:****Criminal Minds and all its associated characters are property to CBS and no profit is being made from this story.**

**Author's Note:**** WARNING! This chapter is filled with a lot of angst! Prepare yourself! Also, this chapter touches on some pretty painful stuff (or rather this whole story.) No offense is meant, and if any take offense, I am sorry.**

**SO! I am really nervous about this chapter- rewrote it over and over again before finally manning up and deciding to just post it! Don't hate me for it! I swear, it's all part of a bigger plan!**

**Chapter Thirty-Three: Make Believe**

_'It's all make believe, isn't it?' -Marilyn Monroe_

Varney's trial was held in a different court room, with a different judge and different attorney and different prosecution. Twelve different jurors sat in the designated area. But the witness stand was exactly the same, Reid noted, groaning inwardly when he sat down on top of the uncomfortable wooden slab. The prosecution, it would seem, had wasted no time in putting the young genius on the stand, having claimed that it would sway the jury from the start- not that they would need much swaying. _"We have enough physical and circumstantial evidence to send him directly to Hell, forget about jail,"_ Will Phelps had boasted earlier while he ushered Reid into the court room.

But while the prosecutor was in law and order bliss, the agent was feeling less than confident. His hands gripped the ledge of the witness bar as he pointedly avoided looking at Varney. This was different from Andrew- very different.

When he had been sitting on the witness stand during Andrew's trial, he was frightened- not because of what might happen when he was there, in the same room with the man who tortured him, but because of what did happen. He had recalled the torture- relived it even! But even still he was able to remind himself that it was in the past, a scar fading more and more everyday. With Varney though, he was terrified. Absolutely terrified because there was something far more permanent about what he had done to him, something far more malicious.

While Andrew had left a wound that would eventually scar over, Varney had left a tattoo that would brand him for life.

He could feel the man burning glares into his skin, knowing that if he had the ability, he would kill Reid with his eyes.

And as he trembled unwillingly in the seat, eyes carefully tracing the speckled pattern of the floor, he tried to make sense of his fear, tried to break it down into words he could understand.

_'Fear is controlled in the amygdala, though it is processed in other parts of the brain. The pre-frontal cortex observes the stimuli, the thalamus decides where the stimuli should be processed, the sensory cortex interprets it, the hippocampus retrieves memories to establish a context, the amygdala decodes the emotions and recalls specific fearful memories, and then the hypothalamus activates either the flight or fight response.'_

It was working. The careful and calming recitation of the path and effects of fear had reigned in his focus and turned it away from his own fear. Like a self-mutilator using controlled physical pain to distract from the emotional pain, he was able to forget that Varney was right there, that the thousands of hands of the people in the court room were there. He was able to bring only one thing to the forefront of his mind.

This was why he loved facts- why he spouted them out as often as he did carbon dioxide from his lungs. They were concrete, they were constant, and they were grounding.

_'When fear reaches the hypothalamus, it triggers an adrenaline rush and several physiological responses take place such as: endorphins being released so that the mind and body can temporarily overlook pain, hair standing on end to create the illusion of being larger and more intimidating, pupils dilating to enhance sight, breath quickening to increase oxygen flow, heart pumping faster to work blood through the muscles and brain, digestive, urinary and reproductive systems slowing down...'_

"Dr. Spencer Reid."

He startled, his back straightening as his thoughts and facts of fear slammed to a halt in his mind. Phelps was standing in front of him, one elbow resting on the ledge of the witness stand as he held the bible out to him.

The young lawyer with a face as round as a cherub but as cocky as an alpha wolf then directed Reid in placing his hands in the proper order to be sworn in. Once the oath was completed and the bible was handed back to the judge, he smirked as he started the testimony.

Much like during Andrew's trial, he led him through a series of painful questions, to which Reid violently worked his nerves out on the stress ball. Hastily, he shoved memories away, determined not to break this time. His fingers dug into the ball, he shifted in the chair, he struggled to focus only on Phelps and the questions.

And somehow, he miraculously made it through the round of questioning, his foot tapping a quick and erratic beat. As Phelps walked around to the Prosecution desk, he felt himself heave a sigh of relief. _'Half way there,'_ he told himself.

"Mr. Ramos, you may cross-examine the witness," Judge Burton said, turning to the defense attorney. The lawyer rose from his seat, standing in front of the Defendant desk and forcing Reid to look over to him- and Varney.

But he couldn't look at him- he couldn't let his eyes take in the very man that had violated him so thoroughly. He couldn't sit there and squirm, and struggle with the memories that, as it was, were fighting to take center place in his mind.

He managed to do it though- managed to completely look over Varney, letting his eyes settle on the lawyer and nothing else.

Far more seasoned than Phelps and with an air of deserved confidence- parallel to Phelps's pervading arrogance- it was clear to see why Varney had chosen Steve Ramos to be his defense. His demeanor was enough to question the mountain of physical evidence against the middle-aged police officer, he seemed so at ease, so in control of the situation around him. As if he knew he could win the case, and therefore did not need to try very hard.

"Dr. Reid," he started, straightening the lapels of his jacket idly. "Your mother- a Miss Diana Reid...where is she right now? Could you tell the court?"

The air froze around him, invisible particles of hydrogen, oxygen, argon, carbon dioxide and nitrogen hung in the air unmoving like shining dust motes. His body still, he felt his jaw twitch as his lungs lurched back into movement- he hadn't even been aware that he had stopped breathing.

Licking his lips and swallowing heavily, he said, "She uh...she's...away."

Ramos inclined his head. "Away...where?"

Hazel eyes fluttered closed in frustration. "A sanitarium," came his strained answer.

Trying desperately to block out the mumbled words from across the expansive room, he honed in on the next question.

"A sanitarium, you say?" He didn't seem surprised at all. "Could you clarify what that is for those who may not know?"

He hesitated only a moment. "It's a psychiatric institution."

Ramos nodded as though in thought, his hand rising to cup his chin as he chewed theatrically on his lip. "A psychiatric institution. In other words, your mother is living in a mad house? An insane asylum? A happy hotel? A funny farm?" Smirking, he added, "I could go on all day, naming euphemisms for a sanitarium. But the fact remains that your mother is insane, correct?"

His jaw clenched, his teeth clamping down and grinding tightly, despite knowing how bad that was to do. His fingers flexed, muscles and tendons moving slowly in his hand as he did so. Pressing his eyes shut, he said in as calm a voice as he could manage, "Legally, yes."

Ramos nodded, as though considering the information in a new light. "What disorder does she have, exactly?"

A moment of hesitation followed the question, in which Reid shifted in his seat. Finally, the words came out, his eyes diverting away from the judging faces and to the cold, shiny floor. "Paranoid schizophrenia."

The lawyer looked impressed.

"Paranoid schizophrenia. Interesting," he said, his voice dripping with near tangent sarcasm. "Dr. Reid you're a smart young man- why don't you tell us what that means."

Angry, the agent-turned-witness sat up straighter, biting his lip. He knew exactly where this line of questioning was going, and he couldn't do a single thing about it. He was a pawn in a game of chess- a game in which each player would take turns, creating strategies and batting the other around like a cat to mouse. And he had to sit there and play into it.

"Paranoid Schizophrenia is a subtype of schizophrenia, a psychotic disorder. While paranoid schizophrenia is easier to live with than other types, as the symptoms are less detrimental, it is still accompanied by some well known symptoms of schizophrenia- hallucinations, delusions in which someone is out to get you, anxiety, anger, violence, emotional distance, and an argumentative behavior." His voice was sharp and flat with the regurgitation of information, sounding very much like a psychology article one might come across.

But Ramos flippantly ignored the deadpanned response, chewing his lip in thought. "And what is the likelihood of inheriting that same disease for you, Dr. Reid?"

The young genius couldn't help but feel a small, smug smile pull up on his lips. While he could rationally dissect his fear, he was never quite able to get rid of it, constantly shadowed by the possibilities of living like his mother. But now, the statistics would work in his favor.

"Low, actually, if the relative is a parent. About six percent chance, only a five percent greater chance than those who have no relation to schizophrenia patients." He paused for a moment, letting his smile widen at the blindsided look on Ramos's face before adding, "In fact, the chances don't even reach fifty percent. Identical twins are at the greatest risk, as there's a forty eight percent chance they will share the illness, but it never breaks half."

Biting his lip, he prevented himself from going any further. Had this been a different occasion- had he been simply conversing with his teammates- he would've then gone on with how interesting it was that it was forty eight percent connection, when identical twins were one hundred percent genetically similar. That that statistic was proof alone that not all of schizophrenia is genetic.

But he quieted himself, instead waiting patiently for Ramos to recover from the slight hitch in his game plan. And just like Reid knew he would, he steered himself right back on track.

"Someone has to be in that six percent, Spencer."

His smile faded and he felt his eyes harden into a glare. "I'm not crazy," he said, knowing before he spoke just how contradictory that defense sounded. Knowing how childish it made him seem.

Ramos- like a wolf encircling an injured fawn- grinned and said, "Have you ever heard the saying that only the insane think they're not insane?"

The young man's jaw dropped, memories slamming into him with such force he nearly fell over.

He remembered that feeling- tied to a bed, tortured, beaten at the hands of a merciless killer, forced to face his biggest fears. But more importantly, he remembered the frightening uncertainty of which reality was the reality he truly belonged in. For all he knew, this could all be a fabricated situation, and Andrew was just about sighing and losing hope that Spencer would ever get better. But it was the doubt that was the most painful, not knowing who was a friend and who was an enemy, not knowing which effigies were fake and which were tangible. And he could recall- clear as a midsummer day- the moment he had pondered the very same thing, knowing that a truly sane person will acknowledge their behavior as deviant.

And having the lawyer use his own logic against him while simultaneously being tied back down to that bed in his own mind was nearly too much to take.

"What are the symptoms of the onset of schizophrenia?" he asked, rhetorically, his arms spreading out as he turned to the jury. "Avoidance of eye contact, clumsy motor capabilities, apathy, overly acute senses to light and noises, hypersensitivity..." He stopped, nodding his head slowly and deliberately. "Traits that anyone who knows Dr. Reid will say he exhibits on a frequent basis."

He actually couldn't help but roll his eyes by that point, his patience wearing thin with this lawyer. Not only did he seem to work every underhanded scenario his manipulative brain could conceive, but he was demonstrating that he had absolutely no knowledge in the psychology field whatsoever.

"Coincidentally enough, they also happen to be symptoms of autistic disorders, something that," Reid paused, drawing in a great breath as he mimicked in a slow and purposeful voice, "Anyone who knows me will say I exhibit the traits of on a frequent basis." He pushed the memory away, the memory of him sitting on a rock beside Andrew, the cold water lapping at his feet.

_'Have you ever been tested for Asperger's Syndrome?'_ the man had asked, distractedly as though he really had no interest whatsoever in discussing the potential autism of Dr. Reid.

_'I wonder,'_ Reid thought to himself_, 'If he was too busy thinking about kidnapping me to really care about that.'_

Before he could contemplate the thought any further, Ramos said, "Are you claiming to have autism then, Dr. Reid? That's a rather bold statement, don't you think?"

The ends of Reid's mouth twitched with the vibrating anger that was quickly growing inside him. "Claiming I made it all up because I'm a paranoid schizophrenic like my mother is also rather bold," was his terse reply, his jaw clenched and his brow furrowed into a deep crease. It didn't take an in depth knowledge of human behavior to know that Hotch was most likely banging his head against a metaphorical wall upon hearing his subordinate's retort- there was nothing quite like mocking a lawyer to lower your credibility in a courtroom.

But he couldn't stop himself- his clenched fists were shaking with rage, his finger nails making holes that penetrated straight through the stress ball. It was bad enough that he had gone through the violation that Varney had put him through- violation no one should ever experience. And now he had to sit here and be accused of making it up with the help of a genetically diseased mind? It was more than invasive and humiliating- it was insulting.

And while he was a normally subdued man, he could only go so far before the rubber band of internal anger snapped.

_'I spent months in a delusional state,'_ he told himself, his inner voice filled with raw determination. _'I will not have my sanity questioned again.'_

"Dr. Reid, as much as I want to believe you," Ramos started, his voice soft enough to almost make that statement seem legitimate, "I find that the factors are building up against you." He stopped, pausing for what Reid could only assume was dramatic effect. But when the young genius refused to react, his face patient and unreadable as he blinked, waiting for him to continue, Ramos went on to say, "You're mother suffers from a disorder that distorts her perception of reality. A disorder that is not only hereditary, but that a handful of witnesses that we will call up here will say, under oath, that you exhibit traits of." And then, his lips pulling into a smile reminiscent of the Cheshire cat, he added, "And not to mention-" he reached over to the Defendant's desk and grabbed a folder- "Your recent history in dealing with psychoses."

His body jolted with the realization of what was about to happen next, a single and resonating heartbeat making his capillaries twitch as his eyes widened. _No..._

Turning to face the jury, he pulled the papers out from within the folder and raised it to be eye level, tapping the large pile of medical reports with the knuckles of his free hand. "I hold here the medical documentation concerning our witness. Medical documentation that clearly states that he is not in as clear a state of mind as he would make you think."

"Objection!" Phelps pleaded, his face a tinge of red and vacant of all its former pompous glory. "Medical conditions in the past are not indicative of the present condition and state of mind."

"I'll allow it," Burton said, waving a hand through the air carelessly. "Provided of course that Mr. Phelps can connect this incident to the trial."

With a grin of utter pleasure and arrogance, Ramos nodded politely to the judge, tilting his head to the side and pulling the papers toward him as he said in a booming voice, "According to these records from the Catskills Medical Regional Center, dated throughout early April, Dr. Spencer Reid suffered a psychotic fracture so severe that he was actually transferred to a residential assisted living program in Pennsylvania." He paused, giving his vast audience time to take in the information and be impressed.

"It says here that Dr. Reid was suffering from several symptoms, varying from post-traumatic stress disorder to delusions." Letting his arm fall to his side, the papers firmly in his grip, he turned to Reid and said, "Did that just happen to slip your mind? Because I find it hard to believe someone with a photographic memory would forget something of such importance."

Chewing his lips, Reid grimaced as he pierced his fingers through the seam of the stress ball, tearing it very nearly in half. "It was stressed induced," he managed to choke out, his throat closing in on him. "It's common for people undergoing a trauma to...separate themselves from it."

"Is it common to hallucinate dead people and abusive parents?"

Reid swallowed, his fingers jerking as he nearly let go of the stress ball. He knew it would come up- knew that his past would be displayed colorfully and for all to see. He had even prepared what to say. But for some reason, it was all escaping his mind, falling onto his tongue but not moving any further. He couldn't think of what to say, couldn't conjure any excuse.

His mouth felt dry, painful and raking with air as he tried to breath. "I...I don't..." he mumbled, his chin trembling.

"Don't what, Dr. Reid?" Ramos inquired, folding his arms over his chest. "You mean to tell me that it is a coincidence that you to have all these tell tale signs of schizophrenia, something that is in your genes, _and_ went through a psychotic break, but are, and have always been perfectly sane?"

"I didn't say-" he started, trying to defend himself. But the lawyer just kept pressing his point further.

"It says here, in these medical documents- these _legal_ documents- that you were just as insane as your mother! That you hallucinated just as she did, that you filled your head with delusions just as she did, and that you made stuff up, just as she did."

The man spoke with a passion now, no longer seeming bored with the trial at hand. His voice rose gradually and was ever steady- the voice of confidence and of being trained in speech. And all Reid could do was helplessly lean forward and back in his chair, opening and closing his mouth as he tried to find his place in the conversation. But his voice was meek in comparison and all that came out was the high-pitched start to syllables.

However, by the final insinuation, the young genius felt his eyes harden as he violently gripped the edge of the witness stand, steadying himself as he shook with the intensity of his anger. Speaking through clenched teeth, he said, "I did _not_ make anything up."

Snorting, Ramos asked, "So there really were corpses haunting you all the time?"

Reid stuttered, his mind not thinking nearly as fast as was necessary before the shark-like lawyer turned around to the jury and said, in a booming voice, "That's right, ladies and gentleman! This young man had suffered several hallucinations and delusions. One of which involved him seeing corpses. Another involved him actually being Andrew Wright's patient, and believing that he _was _ a mental patient, and believing that Wright _was_ his treating doctor.

"It was _during_ his incarceration by Andrew Wright that he fell into this psychotic episode, not after. And while he was being tortured and manipulated, he hallucinated, he had delusions, his mind created conspiracies...So, isn't it possible that his already overtaxed mind gave his attacker a familiar identity, the identity of Heath Varney, and that the _real_ accomplice to this madman is still out there, ready to get his next victim? Or that maybe Varney was just as much a victim in this whole ordeal, forced by Andrew Wright to do all that he did and Dr. Reid just twisted his intentions to suit his own paranoid delusions? With this past, can you truly believe anything this man said happened?"

If Reid had been a bystander to the trial and having no connection to it in anyway, he probably might have applauded the defense, knowing that if the lawyer had any chance of winning, this would be the route. But he wasn't a bystander and he was more than connected to the case- he was living it. And the impressive way in which he would've viewed the ploy was overlooked by the furious anger that was coursing through him. His jaw was clenched painfully as he ground his teeth against each other, his nails digging into the palm of his hands now as the barrier of the stress ball failed.

"It _was_ Varney, he did it because he wanted to" he said, loud and pointedly with every ounce of hatred he could summon forth.

Grinning, Ramos said, "I'm sure you _thought _it was, but-"

"No!" Reid nearly roared, sitting up taller in his chair as he shook his head fervently. His tongue stumbled over the next sentence, his mind whirring at the public admission, but he forced himself to say it, regardless of the dangerous pace of his heart. "He raped me, he raped five other innocent men, and he most certainly wouldn't stop there."

Swallowing the heavy mass that had collected in his throat, he continued, knowing he had the full attention of everyone in the courtroom. "Varney is a prime example of a power seeker- very rarely do men rape men because it's their sexual interest, it's almost always for power. He tried to fulfill his needs safely by role playing with his wife but because she was ultimately submissive to begin with, it didn't give him what he needed. So he jumped at the opportunity to, what he thought, was a sure fire way to get the power he wanted from people who were tortured to the point of having allegations of sexual abuse overlooked."

The room was silent with Reid's analysis, his eyes unwavering away from Ramos, burning into the lawyer as his jaw shook with the force of his rows of teeth crushing against the other. He was angry, first and foremost. Angry that a human being could ever use some fragile and delicate information against him. But he was also just tired.

So very tired.

He wanted it all to be over with already- the trials, the flashing media lights, the reporters. But most of all, he wanted the guilt to be gone. The self-hate, the humiliation, the paranoia, the distrust...everything that he had suffered as a result of the man before him- of the two men at the hands of the state. He wished he could just wake up in his bed at home, maybe to his cell phone ringing with Hotch on the other line, demanding that he get ready for their next case as if it were all back to normal.

As if he was still part of the team.

As if he weren't on a mandatory medical leave.

And he would wake up in his bed, in his apartment- not a hospital bed in a hospital room- and he would say, "Wow, what a detailed nightmare!" And then he would get up, after answering his phone, of course, and make some coffee, perhaps thinking every so often of the bizarre terrors his mind formulated whilst sleeping. But eventually, the day of work and profiling and looking over gruesome scenes would displace the nightmare, and Andrew and Varney would be nothing more than the memories of a dream.

But no matter how much he willed it, he would not wake. And he was forced - for the millionth time in counting- to accept _this_ reality as his reality.

All he wanted to do was go back to the hospital and sleep.

He might've felt crazy in the trauma ward he was slowly considering home, but at least he was among like kind, and away from judging eyes.

Why did he agree to step into the place of judgment, where he was literally placed upon a pedestal for the sole purpose of judging?

He barely registered being ushered down from the witness stand, hands careful to avoid actually touching him and simply fluttering near his shoulder. He sat down on the bench, between JJ and Morgan, as always, and closed his eyes, turning off the trial around him. He couldn't even remember his examination ending, too trapped in his own mind to recall the lawyer's parting words. Not as if it mattered much what the underhanded attorney had said, anyway.

He was really starting to enjoy this whole forgetting thing.

xXx

Reid laid down on the large bed of the hotel, curling into himself as he slid a lithe arm under the pillow, propping it up, his knees nearly touching his chest. Using the toe of his right foot, he kicked of the shoe of the left, repeating the process as the sleek dress shoes fell unceremoniously to the floor. It had been on Hotch's somewhat forceful suggestion to wear the more professional shoes as opposed to his usual, well worn Converses. The young agent had only begrudgingly agreed to wear them, and delighted very much in watching them tumble over the edge of the silver bedding to the ground, hoping childishly that they got thoroughly scuffed on their travels.

He heard the floor groan as Morgan walked over to his own bed, undoing and dispensing his tie onto the mattress in one fluid motion. A strong arm reached out for the remote, turning the television on just as he fell down onto the bed, the springs creaking in response. Seeming to be oblivious to the protests of the room at his presence, he reclined, an arm behind his head, as he turned to Reid and asked, "Anything you want to watch in particular?"

He shrugged lazily, unmoving from his position on his side. It had not escaped Morgan's notice that Reid, a man who normally preferred to sleep as generously on the bed as possible with his long limbs covering the mattress, had started sleeping in a more closed in and protective orientation, as though bearing himself to an empty room would only result in more trauma. But he had chosen not to say anything about it, knowing that it would only make Reid feel more like he was being profiled, carefully watched for any signs of discourse. Still, it was cause to worry, and just another constant reminder that the normally nervous and mistrusting doctor would never be able to open up to anyone quite the same. Not anymore.

He changed the channel to that of the guide, watching as bars with programs and shows scrolled by, trying to find something that might interest Reid out of his self made cocoon. He finally settled on a History channel documentary, one that seemed right up his alley. The film was an exploration of linguistics and applying it to various forms of writing: from notes passed between the nobles in ancient times to recent literature and authors. It didn't take long- only five minutes- into the program for Reid to slowly unravel himself, poking his head out at first and then relaxing into a more leisurely position. Thirty minutes into it, and he was sitting up, hunched over his crossed legs and every so often commenting on a point of the film.

At one point, when the documentary was transitioning from one subtopic to another, he turned to Morgan's and said, "Semantics is really quite an interesting thing. There could be a whole series of documentaries on it alone, if you get to studying all the aspects! To name a few suggestions, there could be semantics as applied to the creation of languages, semantics as applied to the psychology of societies and groups of people, criminals, for one, would be interesting."

Morgan smiled, happy to see Reid resembling more of his former self. Of course, the only reason he had even lured him out of hiding so to speak was for the purpose of propelling him back into the unpleasant reality that was his life.

The dark agent sighed, rubbing his eyes tiredly. It seemed that despite being an off duty agent, Hotch had every intention of making Morgan do some of the more emotional work regarding Reid and the case. Of course, Morgan had no problem with helping out where needed, especially if it was for Reid. But still, it grated on his nerves that the older profiler would give Morgan tasks when he wasn't, technically, under his authority.

The program ended momentarily, pausing for commercial break, and Morgan took that as his opportunity. Apologizing to no one in particular, knowing that he would ruin Reid's newly established good mood, he said, "Reid, man, let's talk about the trial."

The effect was almost immediate, Reid's face falling as the small, twitchy smile slipped from his features and was replaced by a sober grimace.

"I don't want to."

"I didn't ask you if you wanted to."

Shocked by the callous response, Reid swiveled around as gracefully as one could on a bed, narrowing his eyes in defiance at Morgan. "What makes you think I'll even partake in the conversation?"

Morgan sighed, shaking his head slowly. "Reid, just cooperate with me, alright?"

Stubbornly, the younger man raised his chin, looking down his nose. His lips were pressed together tightly as if to say _'Make me.'_

Growling in frustration, Morgan stood up from his position on the bed, angrily turning the television set off and slamming the remote down on the mattress. Reid was such a different person now- not only in the sense of being a patient battling PTSD as well as a myriad of other emotional problems, but in the sense that his entire drive for living seemed to have plummeted.

While the genius was never really strong or boasting any physical expertise, he had always been a fighter, going down swinging until it was a completely and totally impossibility. It was one of the things Morgan admired most about his young coworker, impressed by the fiery spirit that resided in him, seemingly laying dormant until danger came in one form or another.

But now, all the fight was gone, and there were moments where Morgan found himself resisting the urge to grab his slender shoulders and shake him until he fought back, the need to live and strive that had once been so evident in Reid igniting once more. He couldn't, though, knowing that the slightest touch would upend him over the edge and into a flashback. And while he would fight back, it would be against the ghost of his past and nothing more, a reflex no more indicative of wanting to live than your lungs expanding and constricting.

Suicidal wasn't the term he would use to describe him, but more so hopeless as it seemed like, at any given moment, the man might lie down and refuse to get up, like being happy and fighting back was just too much work and he couldn't do it anymore.

_'Like I could blame him,'_ Morgan thought, recalling the innumerable difficulties his friend had faced all throughout his life, buoying between one crisis to another. But why give up now? What had changed? Why didn't he even bother to _want_ to be happy?

His little temper tantrum had succeeded in garnering Reid's attention, as the young man, startled by the sudden and seemingly inexplicable rage, cringed back, his eyes wide and vacant of all defiance. There was a passing moment in which Morgan considered apologizing for his outburst, deciding to let sleeping dogs lie in his fear to damage Reid anymore than what had already been done. But at those thoughts he heard JJ's voice in his mind, telling him to treat him no differently than he had before.

Should he? Would it wake Reid up to the condition of the conscious comatose patient he was, or only send him further into his isolation?

_'It worked before,'_ he thought, remembering that moment when, months before, he and Reid had fought and he used tough love to get through the stubborn exterior. It was worth a shot.

"It really isn't fair, Reid. I spend months sitting in the office of some psychiatrist, waiting for my best friend to become lucid again. And then, when he finally does, he wants nothing to do with anything other than sleeping the days away," Morgan near shouted, stomping around the room and folding his arms over his broad chest. Insulted, Reid opened his mouth to argue, to spit a venomous comment about what was and wasn't _fair_ but was quickly quieted as the tirade continued. "I try every technique in the god damn book to help! I try love, I try tough love, and nothing gets me anywhere. And then, when I tell you about the trials, I see, for the first time in almost a year, you! The old you! The determined you that didn't let enemies and UnSubs get the best of him. I thought, well maybe something clicked! Maybe now he's on the right track!"

He paused, letting the words and hopeful thoughts linger in the air before dropping his voice an octave and adding, "But then you go back to shutting the world out. What the hell am I supposed to do now, Reid? Twiddle my thumbs and wait for you to finally cooperate in your _own damn treatment?_"

Reid was effectively silenced now, leaning back from both shame and fear. Surprise was the emotion that had locked his features however, his mouth open in a wide _o_ shape and his eyes wide enough to expose as much as what was physically possible. He was nearly frozen in place, his mind reeling from the fact that Morgan was yelling at him. From the fact that Morgan was saying such hurtful things.

_'You wanted to be treated normally,'_ he reminded himself, or at least some conscious part of his mind reminded him, piping in from some recess of his brain that wasn't suspended in shock. But still, the way Morgan was so flippantly pushing the ordeal away took a stab of Reid's heart. As if, by the older man's standard's, his pain didn't matter. As if he should just wipe his tears away and _get over it._

But he couldn't just get over something like that, and if that was what Morgan was expecting, he was in for a painful realization.

Finding his voice, Reid finally managed to say, "I don't know what your problem is, Morgan, but I don't think it's _fair_ that you blame me for taking up so much of your precious time. I never asked you to stay at the hospital." If Morgan was surprised by the poison with which accompanied Reid's words, he didn't show it, casually rolling his eyes as he rubbed a hand over his shaved head.

"Dammit Reid, that's not the problem!"

"Then what is?" Reid yelled back, standing up to meet his impressive height. "What is the problem? The fact that I'm not jumping back to my old self? The fact that I'm not getting over it?"

"It's the fact that you're acting like you don't want to get over it!"

The room fell into a heavy silence, thick with the accusation. Morgan momentarily considered recanting his words, the affronted and hurt look on Reid's face immediately making him regret what he had said. But his resolve won the battle, and he remained quiet, knowing that deep down, that was what he had wanted to say.

Reid opened and closed his mouth several times, unsure of what to say. Was that really how he was portraying himself to the others? As someone so wrapped up in their own- he recoiled with the word- _depression_ that he was comfortable in it, wearing the sadness like a favorite shirt and letting it envelope him entirely?

Swallowing, he said, "I do want to-"

"Do you?" Morgan challenged, grabbing a towel and wringing it in his hands as he handed, "Because it seems to me like the only thing you ever want to do now is be as far away from reality as possible, or sleeping."

Unable to maintain eye contact, Reid let his eyes fall down to the ground, the weight of the words pulling onto his heart and lodging it somewhere in his stomach to be burned by the churning acid. After a moment, he heard another heavy sigh from Morgan- the type of sigh one makes in defeat, the type of sigh one makes when one is hopeless.

"I'll be in the shower."

The door slammed close, leaving Reid to sit in the empty room, surrounded by the words and the hopeless sigh that seemed to echo in his ears.

Was Morgan giving up on him? Was the team giving up on him? Could he even blame them?

_'You've been an invalid for a year. Even worse, you've been an invalid who is comfortable with being so,'_ his mind argued against him. It was true, wasn't it? He really wasn't putting in any effort to get better, was he?

Bringing his knees up to his chest, he wrapped his arms around them and placed his forehead on his knees, knobby and uncomfortable though they were. There was truth to what Morgan said, he knew. But he couldn't help it.

It was so much easier to lie in bed all day, to sleep and sleep until the only monsters he had to worry about were the ones in his nightmare. And if he took enough pills- put himself into a deep enough sleep- even those monsters weren't a problem.

Could anyone blame him for not wanting to pull himself out of bed and face another day? A day of forcing himself to appear okay? A day of pretending like human touch and the sight of hands wouldn't send him over the edge? A day of acting like he could focus on anything other than the memories of that week, which pressed on his skull like a migraine?

Anyone would want to slip back under those covers, wouldn't they?

_'If that's the life you'll live,'_ a sardonic voice in his head started up, _'you might as well just kill yourself.'_

He nearly gasped with the shock of his own thoughts. Was that it? Was he really one step away from suicide? Was that where he now stood in life- from acclaimed genius to victim on suicide watch? He recalled that time in the hospital, where Hotch had expressed concern for this very thing. He remembered his own thoughts, his own vow not to become so unresponsive that suicide was the only option. Where had it all gone? Where was that motivation Hotch had evoked?

Before he even knew he had moved he was turning to look at his bag, a bag filled with nearly four weeks worth of several types of high dosage medication. A handful, maybe two, was all that he would need to slow his system to the point of death. It would be so easy- so simple- to do. Morgan would be none the wiser, stepping out of his shower and seeing Reid lie down to sleep, not knowing until it was too late that he had lied down to die.

It was sick, the young agent new. But he couldn't help but garner some perverse joy from thinking of the reactions of his teammates. Would Morgan feel guilty at what he said? Would he hate Reid for killing himself? Would Hotch's cold exterior melt for once, giving way to the emotion of losing one of his own, one of his family?

His mind set it all up, enacted a play of how it would all happen. Morgan would come out from his shower, try to talk to Reid only to have the younger man turn his back on him and go to sleep, a lethal dose of pills laying in his stomach. Eventually, he would give up and go to sleep, waking up the next morning for court. He would try to shake Reid awake, at first realizing he was unnaturally cold and stiff, but ignoring it. After a minute of frantically trying to wake his friend, he would get Hotch, who would only confirm the inevitable: that the genius, the runt of the litter, the psych ward patient, had died during the night.

Died, leaving the legacy of a fallen FBI agent in his wake.

He reached down and grabbed the slash of his messenger bag, pulling it up and settling it into his lap. Flipping open the pocket, he looked inside at the stash of pills, ranging in colors of blue to white to a coppery-red. He could practically feel the chalky and bitter taste of the medications sitting on his tongue, making him cringe like one would with a lemon. He always hated when that happened, when the saliva in his mouth melted away at the pill before he had a chance to swallow it and he was left with the repulsive taste. He couldn't imagine having it be the last thing he tasted before he died.

Slipping a hand into the pocket, he pulled out the plastic bag of medication, delicately holding it in his hand as he examined its contents, each individually, foil wrapped pill. Could he really end it all, just like that?

_'Overdose is one of the more preferred method of suicide to women,'_ he thought to himself, using his thumb to push aside the pills within the bag. _'Men are more likely to use more permanent or messier means, such as a gun or slitting their wrists, while women are likely to choose the "cleaner" options of hanging or overdose.'_

It was poetic really, to commit suicide with pills meant to make you feel better, pills designed to help you sleep. In a way, they would be doing what they were meant to do, but in a more extreme way.

"To be or not to be," he muttered bitterly, bringing himself back once more to that room, to that moment with his mother when she read to him the beloved story of _Hamlet_. "Should I be concerned that my life is starting to resemble that of a Shakespearean play?" he questioned to the empty room, knowing by the rush of water through pipes that Morgan would not hear the almost worrisome query.

It was true that the parallels of his life were lining up drastically to the play. First revenge, now the famous soliloquy of suicide, of ending it all.

Reid stood, wandering over to the kitchenette to pour himself a glass of water, all the while repeating the all too familiar words. "To be or not to be, that is the question. Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing, end them." Glass of water in tow, he sat down on the bed and proceeded to open the bag of pills, carefully selecting the one he recognized to be Seroquel.

"To die, to sleep, no more. And by a sleep, to say we end the heartache," he finished, popping one pill into his mouth and chasing it down with a hearty gulp of lukewarm water. He looked down at the rest of the pills in the open bag, taunting him.

"To be or not to be," he said, sighing in defeat.

xXx

It was easy to do at first, the small pills laying before him as if in a dare. Like one might approach riding a bike or overcoming some obstacle, Reid looked at the pills as though they were a challenge to be taken, a victory to claim. He had always regarded himself as a coward, finding it laughable in a perverse way that he had actually made it into the FBI when he couldn't even _stand being in the dark!_ How did he ever find the courage to hunt down criminals when he acted like a real life version of Shaggy from _Scooby Doo!_, the slightest sigh of the wind sometimes enough to make him glance over his shoulder one too many times.

And so, it was with a sort of desperate mentality that he looked at the pills, not thinking himself a coward for taking them as he, only weeks before, thought he had to be in order to resort to suicide. But as a conqueror of _something._

_'I've failed at nearly everything I try to do- even something so simple as living!'_ he thought, his self loathing and frustration with his situation bursting out of the little box he had tried so hard to lock them in. _'At least, I can succeed at dying.'_

Shouldn't be too hard, right? After all, how many times had he brushed against death in his past, how many hostage situations, fights with UnSubs and even anthrax poisonings had he lived through? It seemed like he was born with one leg in the grave, ready to jump in at a moments notice. In fact, the only thing that had kept him from going in sooner was stubbornness he harbored against...well, dying. Any time he would come close to making the final leap from this life, panic would always settle in, the need to fight and live overwhelming as his brain switched off all but his most primitive instincts. His breathing would quicken, only to have each breath be more shallow and unsatisfying than the last, feeling like there was a hole in his lungs and each intake of oxygen was just being mainstreamed straight through the leak. And in those states of breathing-without-breathing, he would do anything needed to live: kick, bite, scream, attack- if it meant the painful compression in his lungs and lightness to his head would subside, he'd do anything.

But what if he didn't?

What if he willed his body to embrace the chilling form of death? Willed it into a calm that followed him into the afterlife?

_'It would be like sleeping,'_ he told himself, slowly overturning and examining the pill in his large hands. Like sleeping for forever, no monsters to answer to, no demanding tasks that would inevitably only have him reeling with the remembrance of his own traumas...Put most importantly, no more feeling like he did.

No more guilt, no more shame, no more embarrassment...

He wouldn't feel weak, he wouldn't feel hopeless, he wouldn't feel ready to jump out of his skin at anything that was outside of his comfort zone. And, as of recently, his comfort zone didn't incorporate a whole lost.

But still, the signal from his brain to his hand wouldn't work, and the pill remained stationary in his cupped palm, taunting him and saying that he was too much of a coward to face Death. He was growing frustrated with his own lack of will to do what he wanted to do, as though his mind and body were teaming up to go against him.

So he turned his mind against his body...

_'Death is a perfectly natural process. The overdose of pills will eventually lead to a misstep in the sinus of the heart, disrupting the electrical rhythm and causing an arrhythmia. Cardiac Arrest will then be the most likely outcome, and, with the heart shutting down, the body will not be able to sustain life. From there, the body would begin to decay, nothing more than a network of carbon atoms going into a new phase...'_

Science was so definitive, so reliable. The answers wouldn't change or fluctuate, and it calmed him, helped him dissociate who he was from what he was doing.

And he was able to swallow a handful pills, grimacing only at the taste.

xXx

The calm that had allowed him to take the handful of pills wore off, and the realization of what he had just done was settling into his mind, burrowing under the now slowly dying folds of his brain like a bug. And just like all the other times he had tempted fate, the air seemed to grow thinner, his lungs unable to expand far enough to get the right amount of oxygen in.

He hyperventilated deeply, his head whirring around in a dizzy stupor as though the pills had elicited a fast-acting high. His heart thumped in protest in his chest, and he felt lightheaded- whether from the knowledge of the what he had just done to himself or from the effects of it.

Empty foil packets were spread out around him, the dull light of the hotel room not enough to be caught on the reflective surface. He was perched on one leg, his left ankle tucked underneath him as his right foot dangled off the edge of the bed, his muscles flexing and retracting underneath the fabric of his argyle socks as he slowly began to rock himself, his limbs quivering.

_'Just lie down, Spencer,'_ he tried to calmly command himself, his breathing now becoming a hideous, rattling sound with the panic. _'This is what you wanted, remember?'_

Trying to obey his own thoughts, he lied himself down on his bed, only to find this position made it more difficult for his lungs to take in air. He shot back up so that his knees were pulled up in front of him, his shaky hand running through his hair.

Was it what he wanted?

He wanted the pain and the memories to just go away, yes, but did that really mean giving up his life? For the first time since he downed the two handfuls, he began to regret his actions. Was the decision made in haste? Was he really prepared to die, to leave everyone behind?

His breathing sped up, his lungs knotting together as all resources of oxygen were officially gone, black dots blurring his vision. _'Too fast,'_ some part of his mind managed to say over the roar in his ears that might as well have been the sound of a thrashing ocean relentlessly beating against a rocky shore. _'This isn't the pills, it's your panic. The pills wouldn't have acted this fast.'_

But he refused to listen to his subconscious, stumbling out of the bed in his search for something- anything!- that might lessen the growing ache in his chest where his lungs were straining for air. The dots marring his vision thrust him into darkness however, and he was forced to grope around, flailing his hands through the air as he tried to steady himself enough to walk.

But as he grabbed hold of a surface- a table or dresser- his legs gave out beneath him and he tumbled to the ground in a mess of tangled limbs and panting breaths. His head thumped against the floor, adding another malady to the quickly growing list, and it was then that he knew he had a made an awful mistake.

Not because he was going to leave his family behind.

Not because he was going to die while grovelling on the floor.

Not because he was giving up.

But because he was reminded of how terribly and utterly _human_ he was. Death was easy to overcome when all you saw was a mass of overworked cells and nerves, not when you enlarged the cells and nerves to form a human. In his determination to overcome and succeed at something, he had overlooked the fact that there wouldn't be a clean, definite ending to this. His cells wouldn't simply slow down to the point of inactivity, his heart wouldn't simply stop.

Was there an afterlife? Would he be condemned for killing for himself? Would he, as Dante wrote, live for all eternity in one of the circles of hell, punished for ruthlessly destroying all that God had so generously given him? Would his body be consumed by maggots, left to rot?

Death wasn't a science- death was a horrifying and utterly _real_ thing, while science was a study, an observation. He was going to die- _him_, not the cells in his body, the basic building blocks of who he was, but everything about who he was.

He was going to writhe around in fear and panic, his lungs burning and his head feeling too heavy and too light at the exact same time. He wanted to scream but the tightening in his stomach made him feel like he just might vomit at any moment, praying that he would so that he could cleanse his body of the poison he stupidly forced upon it. But no matter how much he silently begged and no matter what disturbing images he summoned to his mind's eye, his stomach would only feel the heavy burden of nausea without releasing it.

The pounding in his ear was becoming too much and he managed to make a strangled, weak cry from his raking lungs. What was wrong with him? Why would he try to do this to himself? It had seemed so perfect, such a clean solution. Why wasn't it though? Why did his brain decide to reinforce the will to live after he consumed so many pills?

He let his body go limp and listless as he stilled himself on the floor, trying to force himself to relax enough that his lung might function again and his eyes clear themselves to unveil the room. Relax himself that he might actually be able to help himself for the first time in ages.

What had become of him? Did he really fall so low that he let the likes of Varney and Andrew get the better of him? Didn't he vow to do just the opposite of that? Didn't he vow to not commit such cowardice as suicide?

He wished he could take it all back, make the pills and the argument with Morgan all vanish. He wished he would've just cooperated instead of holing himself up once more in the isolation he was intent of creating. Why did he have to be so difficult? Wasn't he trained enough in psychology to know what not to do?

_'It's different when you're the patient,'_ he said to himself, letting his eyelids unclench, happy to find the dotted mess that had been his vision slowly clearing up. His lungs were inflating some, no longer feeling as though the oxygen in them had been replaced with acid and like he could breathe somewhat.

Slowly, breathing through his nose and out of his mouth, he told himself, _'I am the patient now, not the doctor.'_

It seemed so idiotic, so obvious, but it wasn't until that moment that his mind truly grasped the concept. He couldn't heal himself, he couldn't take the responsibility for doing it. He had to trust doctors to be as competent as he was if he ever wanted to attain any source of normalcy again. It was so unnatural to depend on others though that he denied it, opting to enclose his mind with a barbed wire fence than accept help.

But he needed it.

Tears rolled down the slope of his fevered cheeks and he pulled himself up from the ground on shaking limbs, the panic attack almost fully subsided by now.

He managed to walk over to the bathroom door, his palms resting against the cool wood. Taking a deep, steadying breath, he pulled his wrists back and rapped loudly.

There was a moment in which all he heard was the sound of the water from the shower hitting the porcelain tub, a steady beat that echoed in the tiled room. And then, the sound stopped, the voice of Morgan replacing it.

"Reid?" he asked, his words filled with regret and concern.

The young man wanted to say something, wanted to calmly explain how he needed Morgan's help. But as though hearing the voice of his friend- of his brother and closest companion- built upon the steady growth of regret, a glob of tears blocked his throat, and he could only make a gargling sound that strained on his vocal chords and made them sore.

Morgan responded immediately to the noise, the sounds of him pushing aside a curtain and sprinting through the bathroom managing to come through the door barrier. And then, the door was ripped open, the agent standing in the door frame, still soaked. Beads of water dripped down his shaved head and his pajamas clung to a wet body, patches of water visible in the white wife-beater he wore. His dark eyes looked down at Reid, softening and widening instantly at the sight.

"Reid..." he breathed, the weight of his regret evident in his speech.

He realized how he must've looked right then, slowly shrinking to the ground as his legs gave out beneath him, tears streaming profusely down his red cheeks, his hair mussed up as though he had tried to pull the tendrils out from his scalp in a moment of lunacy. And his whole body was convulsing, his shoulders jerking as his head could only move back and forth with the momentum, his lip swollen and quivering as he tried to speak through his tears.

Morgan bent down so that he was at eye level with Reid, shaking his head worriedly. "Reid, man, I'm sorry, about what I said. Really, I was just tired and frustrated at Hotch. I'm so sorry, don't cry because of me."

This only made Reid's breath hitch, his tears flow quicker and more consistently. If Morgan was this upset and this guilty just from seeing Reid cry, how would he react when he found out what the young man had done? How could he do this to his friends, his friends who only tried to help him, his friends who tolerated how stubborn he had been to his own treatment? He wanted to scream, yell at himself. He wished so desperately once more that everything could just be okay, that the pain and trauma that was the "road to recovery" would just disappear.

Why did being happy have to be so damn hard?

"I'm so sorry, Reid," he heard Morgan plead over his rambling and tumultuous thoughts. He never realized before now just how mutinous his own mind was, not once letting the thoughts and memories that only jabbed more at his heart end. His eidetic memory being the leader of the onslaught, everything remembered in perfect, terrifying detail.

"Reid, talk to me, please!"

He jolted, the begging voice jarring him out of his thoughts. He looked at Morgan, startled by the look of helplessness that seemed so unfamiliar on the dark face. Was that what it took to make the mighty agent crumple? Was his weakness seeing a friend in pain and being unable to do a damned thing about it? How long had Morgan felt this way, like he wasn't even strong enough to fight off the demons that only Reid could see?

His face crumpled from the tears, feeling all the more useless. Why had he been so selfish? Why had he been so weak?

"I...I'm sorry!" he choked out through the lump in his throat, desperately trying to swallow it down so that he could tell Morgan what he did, so that he could get the help he was finally willing to accept.

"No, no, no!" he heard the man say quickly, the softness and regret still lingering in his baritone voice. "You have no reason to be...I-"

"NO!" Reid managed to yell, the frustration with himself increasing greatly at his own inability to communicate.

He barely registered the startled way Morgan pulled back, an affronted look gracing his features. He opened his mouth as though to try to calm Reid, but the younger agent, finally taking a hold of himself, added, "My fault...I'm sorry...the pills..."

The words confused Morgan, who furrowed his brows in questioning. But then, it dawned on him, his profiler instincts taking over as his eyes widened to an impossible girth, his lips parting as he gasped out in shock. He stood, twisting his body to look over at Reid's bed, littered with little foil wrappers.

Empty foil wrappers.

"No," Morgan said in disbelief, shaking his head as he looked back Reid, demanding with his eyes that Reid deny it, tell him that he hadn't taken so many pills. But when the young man could do nothing but bite his lip in shame and look away, he crashed back to earth with the startling reality, his broad chest rising and falling unsteadily as he panicked.

Had the situation not been so dire, and had Morgan not been so emotionally involved, he would've reminded himself to remain calm. He would've remembered his training and would've asked Reid to explain everything about what had happened, the questions he had been taught to ask flying through his head.

"_Did you actually take the pills or just think of taking them?"_

"_What did you take?"_

"_How many did you take?"_

And then he would've called for an ambulance, sending the anonymous person to the nearest medical facility for help.

But this wasn't an anonymous person.

This was Reid, his coworker, his friend, and his family. A man he had _literally_ risked his life for, and vice versa. Any sort of thinking, training or logistics flew out the window, his heart pounding faster and harder than it ever did. No bomb or UnSub he had worked with had ever elicited such a panicked response, and it seemed he had lost complete control of his body, his conscious mind stepping back and letting his actions go onto autopilot.

And so, not even thinking to get Reid to talk, not even thinking to get Hotch from the next room, he grabbed Reid by the arms, his grip tight and bruising. This frightened the young agent immensely, causing him to jump and yelp with surprise as he instantly starting struggling against Morgan's hold. But the former police officer was stronger than Reid, and he managed to pick him up and pull him into the bathroom, not bothered in the slightest by the way in which Reid kicked and struggled in his grasp.

It didn't occur to Morgan that he had probably triggered flashbacks, that he had potentially sent Reid spiraling back into the past that haunted him enough as it was. All he could think of was getting the pills out of his system before they could cause any permanent damage, his mind unable to even conjure the meaning of _permanent damage_ at the time.

But Reid wasn't cooperating, the touch of skin against his own- of _hands_ reaching for him- had pushed him back once more into the icy cold cavern of his mind, the memories assaulting him like a bullet ripping through his brain. It wasn't Morgan's hands grabbing him, but Varney's, and his skin began to itch with the unwanted touch, feeling like bugs had burrowed underneath and were crawling under his skin and over his muscles, twitching little feelers. He felt dirty, like the bugs were leaving behind trails of dirt, and all he could think of was the disgusting combination of blood and ejaculate coating his thighs, congealing and making his legs sticky and warm, shaking in pain. He felt a pain clench around his wrists, the bruising cuffs pinching into his skin and the coolness of the blindfold sliding down his nose only made him struggle more, the hands not leaving from under his arms as he was carried.

And then suddenly he was dropped down, a figure coming into place behind him, one arm wrapping around his torso to hold him in place. His breathing hitched and sped up to a dangerous place as his movements became even more frantic and desperate, not aware that it was Morgan behind him and not Varney. He grabbed onto the arm around his chest, digging his nails into the tough skin as hard as he could, thrashing his legs through the air.

"No, stop!" Reid begged, his voice small and anxious as he misinterpreted Morgan's action.

Ignoring the plea, the older man pried open the genius's mouth with his fingers, shoving them inside quickly and forcefully. Reid's body stilled for a moment, only to be jolted back to life as he gagged violently, instinctively pulling away from Morgan as his stomach heaved. But Morgan was persistent, acting as a wall against Reid, and, in a matter of seconds, his goal had been reached.

Morgan quickly retracted his hand, replacing it on Reid's back as he hunched over the porcelain basin and vomited the contents of his stomach. He winced at the choking sounds, wanting to apologize but unable to do so, the words dying before they even made it to his lips. Because he wasn't sorry, not really. Not if it was for Reid's own good.

Reid coughed, his throat scraping painfully with the action, as he leaned back only to lurch forward when his back collided against Morgan's chest. He scrambled away from the agent, coming to his feet and walking on unsteady legs into the hall and the conjoined room, where he finally collapsed on an armchair, panting heavily and clearing his throat as though it might make the taste of bile and vomit disappear from his mouth.

The violent wrenching still twisting his stomach into tightly coiled knots. He leaned forward, his elbows propped on his knees as he shook, now from the unsteady feeling of being sick than from the panic. Vomiting had driven his mind's focus away from the memories and the flashbacks that were now deeply hidden once more in the recesses of his mind, and he no longer saw himself in that damned hospital room, with Varney violating him. The pain of the dry rake of his throat that stung raw with every shuddering breath was enough to center his mind, wincing at both the residual taste on his tongue and the burn that ran up and down the length of his esophagus.

"Why?"

He looked up at Morgan, who had moved away from the bathroom and now stood leaning against the wall of the narrow corridor leading from the door to the opening of the bedroom, his arms crossed loosely over his chest. An indiscernible expression was in place on his face, his lips parted slightly and his eyes narrowed as he scrutinized Reid, as though the answer was written in fine print on his forehead and he was struggling to read it.

Feeling uncomfortable under the intense stare, Reid shifted in his seat and turned away, deciding instead to look at the floor. Several long minutes passed before he heard Morgan shuffle through the room.

"Get your coat," he said, his voice low and unmistakeably shaken.

Reid looked up at this, watching as Morgan grabbed a shirt and a fresh pair of jeans. "Where...where are we going?" he asked, his heart pounding loudly in his chest. Was he going to bring him back to the residential facility? Had he destroyed all semblance of trust that he had between him and his team now?

"The emergency room," was the curt reply as Morgan disappeared once more into the bathroom.

Unable to move, Reid remained sitting in the chair, his eyes lingering on the white, traditional style door, wide and glassy. It made sense that Morgan would want to take him to the ER, after all, there was no guarantee that inducing vomiting had completely cleared the drug from his systems. But he by no means wanted to go. What if they made him go back? He _needed_ to stay for the end of the trials. Maybe seeing Varney be put away for good would be all he needed to get jolted back into the real world- a world where he wasn't a useless and, apparently, suicidal, invalid.

He was motionless as Morgan moved around him, gathering the pills and packets- the empty and the filled- back into the plastic bag and slipping them into his pocket, deep and fully from view, Reid noticed. The man even made sure to collect pajamas and a change of clothes for Reid, claiming that, at the very least, he'd be spending the night in the hospital. He handed Reid his coat and shoes before knocking on the door to Hotch's room, nearly barging in.

It went as a blur, slow and drawn out, with the sound of his own blood overpowering the real sounds surrounding him. Even as a half-asleep Hotch gracelessly entered the shared room to talk to Morgan in hushed tones- as surely they didn't want Reid alone for too long- he heard nothing but the rush and roar of blood. Yet somehow he managed to stand when Morgan asked him to, managed to walk with him to the car, meeting up with a now fully awake Hotch. No one said anything on the way to the hospital.

And Reid was very thankful for that.

xXx

Staying in the emergency room as a suicidal patient was leagues different than staying there as a victim, the young man was very displeased to notice. Was that really how it went? Did the doctors and nurses really regard you as some second list patient when compared to the ones who actually valued their lives? Did that make it easier for them to want to save their lives, knowing that it would be properly appreciated? How many people did they rescue from various UnSubs, just to throw them into the hands of such biased medical staff?

They all seemed to give Reid a look, a look that said, _'There must be something so wrong with you to do that. What's so bad you have to kill yourself?'_

Through the intake process, in which Reid allowed Morgan to do most of the talking, he sat staring down at the floor, his eyes carefully trained on finding images and forms in the carpet. He only just barely paid attention to what was being said, too ashamed to fully focus.

"Did he say he took the pills?" the nurse asked, not even bothering to speak to Reid by this point.

Morgan considered the question before saying, in a tired voice, "No, but he did mention pills and I saw the pile of empty foil packets. I just assumed."

The nurse nodded, jotting the information down. When she was finished, she looked up at Hotch and Morgan and said, "The doctor will be here shortly. I'll give him the bag of pills you gave me and he'll see what needs to be done. It didn't look like _too_ much was ingested, and, depending on the dosage levels of the ones he did take, we may not have to do anything. But better safe than sorry."

She stood from her chair, finally turning to Reid. "Follow me please, Spencer."

"Dr. Reid," Hotch corrected, receiving a barely concealed look of surprise from the nurse. "He's Dr. Reid."

She nodded after a moment, realizing that the stoic man was being serious, before turning back to Reid and said, "Alright then, Dr. Reid. Follow me."

She lead them to the Emergency Room triage, past a wall lined of curtains that shielded the immediately sick and injured from view. Some of the more able patients were sitting in uncomfortable plastic chairs by the nurses' station in the center of the large room. The nurse stopped at the far end, where individual rooms stood instead of simply enclosed sections. But unlike the enclosed sections which were equipped with typical hospital beds and various counter tops and drawers, these rooms contained only a bed. The bed was placed in the center of the room, directly in front of the door frame- no door available- with wide windows flanking the sides. The bed was far more intimidating than the ones Reid had become accustomed to, looking like an awful cross between a dentist chair and a bed. Levers were strewn about the pedestal of the device, which was one large, metal base as opposed to four, slim legs. Railings marked each side of the bed and straps hung limp, swaying ominously in the only way they could without a direct breeze.

Reid stilled upon seeing this, his eyes widening and his throat growing raw.

"They're not going to use them on you, Reid," Morgan said, encouraging the man to move forward. But he only made it a step before he was startled by a gruff, new voice.

"A new one?"

Turning in the direction of the voice, he was shocked to see a police officer sitting in front of the back rooms, a tray to the side of his chair that was being used as a temporary desk for the cop. The cop himself was older, in his mid forties, and overweight, his large belly stretching out the starched fabric of his black uniform. A gray mustache covered his upper lip, thin wire glasses sitting on the bridge of his nose. But he removed them as he sighed, placing the book he had been reading down as the nurse gestured to the room in the most direct view of the officer- Room 3.

"Yes, Doctor Hart should be here for him soon," she said, nodding so that the bob of blonde hair bounced.

"Alright," the officer said flippantly, watching as the three agents entered the room, followed by the nurse.

"You can lie down on the bed, Dr. Reid. We can get you a blanket, once Dr. Hart gives us permission to. It's not normally standard for us to supply them in these rooms, but I'm sure he'll allow us to get one for you," she said, not aware to the way her words made Reid cringe.

_'By _'these rooms'_ she means the rooms they use to temporarily store the ones who are a danger to their lives or others,'_ he thought with startling clarity, suddenly hating himself for understanding it. This room was designed specifically for people who couldn't be trusted with anything but a bed, let alone the privacy the other patients were afforded. Blinds were placed over the windows in a half-hearted attempt to convey the illusion of seclusion, but they were fully drawn and there was no visible way to close them.

He clambered up onto the bed, the inclined platform of the mattress forcing him to half-sit up in it. He sent a sideways glance at the cop, who was staring at him with a bored expression. Even with Hotch and Morgan here, he still had to be supervised by a hospital authorized officer. He was being _babysat_ by someone miles below him on the career food chain.

_'Not like you don't deserve this,'_ a voice snorted to him in his mind, berating him for his rash decision only an hour or so before.

Hotch sighed, drawing Reid's attention away from the police officer. "I'm going to get us chairs and some coffee, we'll be here awhile," he said, forcing a tight lipped, grim shadow of a smile to the young genius before nodding to Morgan, exiting the room in his ever present businesslike manner.

Reid swallowed nervously, averting his eyes to the floor as Morgan leaned against a wall, rubbing his eyes tiredly.

After a moment, the dark man spoke. "I'm sorry," he said, in a low and cracked voice.

Reid shook his head. "You shouldn't-"

"No, Reid," Morgan interrupted, bringing his hands up and running them over his shaved head. "I should be. What I said was..." he paused, trying to find the right words. But before he could, Reid spoke.

"What you said was right...I...Morgan, I'm not strong enough to get better. The sooner you and the team accept that, the sooner we can all move on." Reid looked away then, the slight burn of tears in his eyes making him squint. He wasn't strong enough to relive that week, he wasn't strong enough to overcome his demons. He just barely survived it once, why tempt fate?

"Reid," Morgan said, his voice stern but soft. "You and I know that ain't true. Varney and Andrew are just like any other UnSub we've encountered."

Shaking his head, the younger man pressed, "No! They're not. They-"

But Morgan ignored him, speaking as though he hadn't been interrupted. "Just like Foyet was another UnSub, and Doyle, and Frank...and Carl Buford. They're nothing more than sickos who are too inferior to earn respect and power the way we do. The only way they can get it is by degrading others and overpowering them. Think of it, none of them were even brave enough to take us on unless we were disadvantaged."

Raising his hand and counting off on his fingers, he said, "Both Foyet and Frank were so weak that the only way they could get to Hotch and Gideon was through a surprise attack. Doyle could only get to Prentiss by threatening us, her team. Buford preyed on children who he convinced into thinking that they needed him to make something of their lives. And Andrew and Varney..." he sighed, letting his hand fall to his lap. "They could only get to you by using your worst fear against you."

Reid diverted his eyes away, letting them focus on the single rows of plastic of the blinds that shielded the window, lazily watching as the Rent-A-Cop picked idly at his nails, paying no attention to the two agents he was supposed to be supervising. A hard lump was forming in his throat, pressing into his larynx and trachea, making it feel like the muscles of his neck were slowly tightening around the windpipe.

He was just so exhausted!

His mind was so torn, alternatively agreeing with Morgan one moment and than fervently denying what he was saying the next. Like one moment he was swept up into a wave of motivation, ready and prepared to do whatever necessary to get back to his old self, and then in the blink of an eye he was deflated of all gusto, defeated and wanting only to crawl under heavy covers and forget the world ever existed.

He was not familiar with this. Sure, he had had cases in which he had felt empathy for the UnSub, but never before had he been so stricken with confusion. His thoughts and opinions were completely separate, one standing on a divide opposite the other.

_'This must be what it feels like to have Borderline Personality,'_ he mused, a slight headache starting to form from the sheer indecisiveness of his own will to live and to truly live. Why did it have to be so difficult? By this point, he didn't care whether he was suicidal or content with his life- just so long as he could commit to one.

"No one said it would be easy, Reid," Morgan's voice came through, drawing the young man out of his thoughts. "There will be times where you feel alright with everything, and then there will be times like this. But I promise you, Pretty Boy, we'll be there through all of it."

Reid looked up at him then, surprised to see the dark brown eyes misty with unshed tears. Tentatively, the dark man forced a wavering smile onto his face, one that seemed entirely out of place with his glossy eyes. "You can't get rid of us that easily."

The young genius managed only to return the smile with his own, attempting desperately to block out his own condemning thoughts. _They weren't there when it mattered most..._

A quick rapping filled the room, and Morgan and Reid looked up to see a doctor in what appeared to be his early forties, with thinning hair that was sandy in color and deep creases crinkling at his eyes and around his mouth. An ever-present smile graced his face and he nodded in Morgan's direction before turning to Reid. "You must be Dr. Reid." He barely waited for a nod in response before adding, "I'm Dr. Hart, the emergency psychiatrist here. Would you mind if I ask you a couple of questions?"

He bit his lip before he could respond with _'Do I have a choice?' _and instead answered, "Yeah, sure."

"Good! Now, would you like some privacy, or would you feel more comfortable with your coworker here?" he asked, seating himself on the sill of the window as he placed his clipboard down on his lap.

He hesitated, unsure of how to answer. On one hand, he still felt uneasy around new people, and having a familiar face- particularly that of a close friend- helped him level his anxiety. But he still wasn't sure of what the doctor might ask him, and whether or not he wanted Morgan to be there for his answers.

Sensing the uncertainty, Dr. Hart shook his head and said, "How about we get started and if at any point you want some privacy, just let me know, alright?"

He exhaled the breath he wasn't aware he was holding. Liking that idea, he nodded, waiting for the doctor to begin his questions.

The man pulled his clipboard closer, stating, "Well, first, let me say that after examined the bag of pills Agent Morgan brought in- thank you, by the way, it made this task much simpler, I was able to conclude that most of the pills you took were Seroquel. As I'm sure you know, Seroquel is one of the safest drugs we offer of its type, and is often prescribed to children for this reason," he lowered the board, smiling at Reid as he said, "you'll be fine. Of course, we're still going to continue observations and would like for you to provide a urine sample once I'm done speaking with you, but I feel confident in saying that you would've needed a lot more Seroquel in your system than what you had. At the moment, were more concerned with the other drugs you took.

"We were able to break it down. Provided that you all of the foil wrappers were from tonight, you took a total of twenty-four pills. Fifteen of which were the Seroquel, six were the Klonopin, and three were Wellbutrin. You'll be fine, but we're going have to change the pills you take. Because of your specific case, we're going to let your treating doctor at the residential do that for you, since he's more familiar with you and what might help.

"Unfortunately," he added, smiling sadly at Reid, "that means we cannot provide you with any pills, and as a result, you'll start to experience withdrawal symptoms. Because you used Seroquel for sleep, it is likely that you will also suffer some sleep loss. Hopefully, we can find a safe alternative for you in the meantime to hold you over until you return to your hospital."

Reid nodded, huffing out in discontentment. _'Great, now I can't even sleep everything away,'_ he thought, biting his lip. He didn't care how weak it sounded- he was tired of trying to be strong.

"The first question I have to ask you is one I want your full honesty on- can you do that for?"

He looked up at him, feeling a pang of irritation. He hated this condescending manner in which the typical psychologist seemed to carry with them. But pushing his retorts down, he acquiesced.

"Why did you do it?"

The room stilled, molecules hanging in the air as they stopped their erratic movement, the temperature dropping immensely, but becoming more stifling all the same. He bit his lip, chewing and turning it over with his teeth as he turned to look at Morgan, his heart pounding out ferociously. The man was leaning forward in his chair, his elbows propped up on his knees and his chin resting on his knuckles. He was looking at Reid intently, anxious to know the answer that the young man might provide. Anxious to know why he did it. The shimmer of tears, laying on the lower lid, unmoving, was partially hidden in his bent position, causing the genius to heave a deep breath in relief.

"I..." he started, looking down at the floor. Why did he do it? He could remember his reasons for it, seconds before he did it. He remembered feeling useless, hopeless, the finality of Morgan's tiresome sigh still ringing in his ear. He remembered feeling like he might as well have, preferring a shortened life to one spent in hospitals, popping pills like oxygen. Preferring no life to one similar to the life his mother lived, the life he tried so hard to avoid.

But was that why? Deciding to overdose wasn't an impulsive action, even if he changed his mind half way through. Reaching that point- that point where you're sitting on the edge of the cliff, teetering over ever so slowly, halfheartedly holding on to a support system- took time. It happened, in a series of events, in a gradual downfall.

So what exactly did it?

What finally tipped him over, dislodged his hand of the feeble rope that held him just on the balance at that edge?

"Take your time, Dr. Reid," the doctor prompted, a lace of impatience waning his voice.

But Reid made no note of it, scrambling frantically in his head to figure out why. Because he was heading down a path oddly reminiscent of his mother? Because he was making no move to get better, too weak to relive the week long enough to overcome it? Because he knew that even if he did, he wouldn't be doing it for himself but so that his team could be happy again, knowing they had the real Spencer back in their family once more?

Or was it because there was no guarantee that this was the end? That at any moment, during any case, he would be pushed back once more into the hands of the UnSub? That he would have to choose between living a secured life, in the center of his team and away from harm, or chance having the whole cycle repeat itself?

A dull throb began to pulse in the forefront of his head, and he scrunched his eyes, trying to see past the starting blur of a forming headache. For once, it hurt to think. So, sighing, he came up with the only true, decisive answer he could summon.

"I don't know."

Dr. Hart looked up at him, an eyebrow raised and his eyes questioning as though he were challenging him, accusing him of lying. But Reid didn't change his mind, turning his gaze down to the floor as he kicked his feet out slowly.

"Well, what were you thinking then? When you did it?"

The lights seemed to flash in his head and he blinked, trying to clear his vision and disentangle himself from his mind. But the flashing continued, and he glanced wearily at the swaying restraints, the limp leather of the wrist binding hitting against his ankle. He couldn't think anymore, not with the worn yet tough material brushing against him. All he could do was stare at them, watching in horror as the leather transformed into metal, tarnished with blood. And then the cuffs were around him, clasped around his ankles and his wrists.

His breathing sped up, his heart rate accelerated. He could feel each pulse of his heart as it reverberated in his body, each vein twitching. The sound of his blood echoed in his ear, deafening as he shirked back against it, raising a hand to his head.

He could vaguely hear the shout of the doctor, of Morgan, of nurses from the outside as he felt his head go heavy, his body snapping back onto the mattress with the exhausting weight it suddenly seemed to gain. He could barely make out the nebulous shadows that rose above him to be Morgan and Dr. Hart, the glaring light creating a halo behind them. But with one long blink of an eye, the shapes changed and instead he saw Varney and Andrew leering down at him.

"No," he managed to moan out, grasping out wildly as he tried to bring himself back to the hospital room, tried to force the shapes to return to Morgan and Hart. But they wouldn't.

"Please," he begged, closing his eyes as though it might make them go away.

As though it might make everything go away.

He jerked up from the mattress when he felt hands grasp his shoulders. But the more he tried to sit himself up, the more persistent and forceful the hands become. The rush of voices passed by, but his hearing was so muffled by the crude noise of blood against veins that he couldn't hear it. And he continued to struggle, becoming more frantic as he realized that he was outnumbered, too many hands forcing him to lay down.

"Stop! Please!" he called out, not sure if it was to the doctor's or to the memory of Varney and Andrew he was directing that demand to. He clawed out, flailing his hands wildly. But when someone grabbed onto his wrists, he screamed out, fighting back with gusto as he lurched forward and kicked out, throwing his body around even when he felt the leather strap close around his slim wrist.

"NO!" he yelled, freezing only in his violent flopping when he heard a _POP! _It took only seconds before he felt the growing pain in his shoulder and the tightening of the knots in his stomach. Twisting his body, he heaved as he vomited for the second time that evening, his arm quivering with the residual shock of the new injury.

He stilled, his throat burning with each intake of air when he felt the pinch of a needle in his arm. As the heavy sedative was pushed into his body, he slumped back against the mattress, welcoming the darkness.

xXx

**Author's Note:**** Don't kill me! So, I rewrote this chapter about...five or so times, through different perspectives and with different events, eventually deciding that, for the way I wanted this story to end, this was the best option.**

**So even though a lot of you may hate me for this, I promise you it is a happy ending! Bear with me for the next few chapters!**

**Longest chapter yet, twenty-seven pages in total. It's a beast!**

**Sorry for the long update- a pesky thing called life insists on getting in the way no matter how much I try to block it out. Anyway, this chapter may seem confusing for someone who has never had any experience with someone who is suicidal, so here's a quick explanation: The will to live- the self-preservation mechanism- is a primitive thing, found active in the oldest part of the brain, and will often be present even when someone truly believes they want to die, causing them to switch between wanting to live and wanting to die. It's not common for someone to make an attempt and then regret it, or for them to try a halfhearted attempt. Typically, doctor's will see anything that isn't a quick and definitive means to suicide as a subconscious call for help for this reason.**

**I really depressed myself...**

**Anyway, sorry, again! I really hope you enjoyed this chapter! **


	34. Chapter 34

**Disclaimer:****Criminal Minds and all its associated characters are property to CBS and no profit is being made from this story.**

**Author's Note:**** So, everyone seemed to really love the last chapter, which makes me so happy because I think it's my favorite and the one I am most proud of! Yay! Thank you all for bearing with me through it! Happy endings for all! **

**Also, 300 REVIEWS? Oh man, we made it to that milestone! You guys are so awesome!**

**Chapter Thirty-Four: Sinking**

"_Let them think what they liked, but I didn't mean to drown myself. I meant to swim till I sank - but that's not the same thing." -Joseph Conrad_

"The doctor said he should be fine, but they wanted a urine sample to make sure, so they're setting him up to a catheter now," Morgan said as he sat down on the plastic chair beside Hotch, warming his hands on the steaming cup of coffee. Shaking his head, he reached up and rubbed a hand over his brow, sighing heavily. "I guess it's good they ended up sedating him anyway if they were going to do that originally."

Hotch nodded his agreement, sipping from the styrofoam container as he watched nurses assemble a temporary privacy screen around Reid's bed, the young man hidden from view. After a moment, he said, in a voice barely above a whisper, "What happened?"

Morgan sighed as he looked up to the room, shaking his head slowly, unsure. "I don't know, man. He just spaced out and...I think he had flashbacks that-"

"No," Hotch interrupted, silencing his subordinate. "No, what happened...before? Why did he do it?"

The younger man could do nothing but shake his head, exhaling a deep breath of air as he looked down at the floor, at the plastic lid covering the coffee he could barely bring himself to drink. Why did he do it? Had it been the build up of stress from the trials? The words of the Defense Attorney? Or was it from everything else? From the memories, the flashbacks...

Or was it because of what Morgan said?

His stomach knotted, a string of pain shooting up through his chest and making his whole torso ache at the thought. Would he be able to live with himself if he was the reason for Reid attempting such a thing? How could Reid ever forgive him? Could he ever forgive himself?

His legs began to shake, the ball of his feet quivering ever so slightly against the grainy linoleum as his body followed suit, his elbows and hands making the same motion as they rested on top of his knees. He could hear the slosh of the coffee as it was pushed against the curved sides of the cup, splashes of the hot liquid spilling out from the small hole in the lid.

Hotch gave him a sideways glance, his dark eyes narrowed as he watched the slight convulsing, worry evident in his brow. But Morgan couldn't still his limbs, even if he tried with all his might. He was too jittery, too alert. His nerves were standing on edge, urging him to do something- anything!- but sit there on the chair, sit there as Reid was examined and poked and prodded by people who didn't know him.

_'Reid wouldn't want this,'_ he thought, thinking he should stop them. Make them leave the kid alone, tell them he's been through enough. But he couldn't, the logical side of his brain winning out and demanding that he stay put and let the doctor's do what they had to do. But his over-protectiveness- fierce, like that of a lion to its cub- was protesting at every angle. How could he let strangers violate him _again?_ After he had possibly been the reason the young genius nearly died?

The twitching increased, dramatically and with no gradual incline.

The cup slipped from his hands.

The styrofoam container fell to the floor, the flimsy plastic lid immediately bouncing of the lip of the cup, allowing the steaming hot coffee to flow freely. It pooled around his shoes, staining Morgan's neat and clean sneakers.

But the man, still too focused on his guilt ridden thoughts, barely paid notice to coffee, groaning at the mess and covering his eyes with his trembling hands, a whispered curse slipping through.

"I'll get a napkin," Hotch said after a second before he left, the concern in his voice hanging in the air like fog. He returned minutes later, kneeling forward and placing it on the floor. Once he had cleaned it up and Morgan mumbled a quiet thank you, he settled back down beside him, his body facing the younger man as he eyed him intensely.

"He's going to be fine, Morgan," he said, but the man was shaking, moving his hands away from his eyes as he started to gesticulate madly.

"No, no! He's not going to be fine, Hotch!" he yelled. "He just took a handful of pills! _That's. Not. Fine!_" He stood from his chair, pacing in the small hallway wildly as he ran his hands over his scalp, shaking his head. "How is this fine?"

Hotch leaned back in his chair, his hands clasped in front of him as he watched Morgan, his eyes following his frantic movements. Raising his voice just enough so that he could speak over the deep yells, he said, "He's safe, at least, Morgan. That's the most we can ask for."

"For how long though? How long will he be okay? Until they release him? Until the trial? Until his next flashback?" He was slicing his arms through the air, angrily, frantically moving around as though his nerves were too frazzled to stop- his entire body stuck in one command for the rest of his life. "Hotch, he won't be safe. Not now, not for months...hell, maybe not even years!"

"We've done all we could for him-"

"NO!" Morgan roared, swiveling around to face his boss, his feet rooting to the spot as he put his hands on his hips, his movements finally coming to halt. But his face was hard set, his brow line set in a deep frown that caused crinkles of skin along his forehead as his nostrils flailed, his lips pursed. "No! We haven't done all we could for him! That's why this happened! That's why he's here! Don't you get it? It's because we've never done anything for him that this happened! How the hell can you sit there and act like we've done enough?"

"Excuse me, sir?"

Hotch and Morgan looked at the source of the noise, a petite doctor in her late thirties and a pinched smile. "I'm sorry if you're going through something right now, but you're starting to upset the other patients. If you would like, there's an available conference room that you and your friend can use just outside of the triage. I can direct Dr. Hart to you once he's finished up with Dr. Reid, alright?"

Before the already enraged agent could say anything, Hotch jumped up from his chair, nodding his thanks. "Yes, that would be wonderful. Thank you." Sparing no more words, he started walking to the exit of the ER, away from Morgan, away from the bustling doctor's surrounding his subordinate, and away from Reid.

Dumping his empty coffee cup on the way out, he quickly found the room the doctor spoke about and sat himself in the large, cushioned swivel chair. Folding his arms over the table, he looked at the door, waiting for Morgan to come through it. But he didn't. And knowing the stubborn man, he was probably steadfastly refusing to leave Reid's side.

_'He's stronger than you,'_ he thought, sighing as he placed his head down on his hands, the tip of his nose coming into contact with the soothing cool of the table. He didn't know how Morgan could do it- how he could watch as one man so close to him deteriorated before his eyes and still had the strength to be there, by his side. How Morgan could set aside all his own personal thoughts and feelings, all his own regrets, if it meant having that person wake up to a friendly face.

He couldn't do it. He couldn't sit there and look at the person who he let down so often, who he failed repeatedly time and time again and just be alright with it. He couldn't do it.

Did he even deserve to do it? How did he have any right to try to be there for Reid anymore?

He felt the tears before he knew he was crying, the moisture on his arm alerting him to their presence. But, like always, the tears never got very far, settling only on his lid instead of traveling down the slope of his cheek. He was losing control so fast.

But what did he have to complain about, when Reid's entire life and sanity was hanging by a string?

He took a deep and shuddering breath, silencing his thoughts in order to gain some piece.

It didn't take long for him to fall asleep.

xXx

It was the door opening fully that woke him up.

He had always been a light sleeper, a trait that was only solidified in his job field. It only took investigating one crime scene where the UnSub broke into the home and attacked the victim while they were at their most vulnerable for Hotch to take all the necessary steps to be as invulnerable as possible. Needless to say, the second Morgan walked through the door he was sitting up in the chair, rubbing his eyes and trying very much to look like he hadn't just fallen asleep.

Whether or not Morgan noticed that he had been sleeping, he didn't show it, as he sighed and took the seat opposite Hotch, propping his elbows on the table and holding his face in his hands.

"He started to wake up," he said after a moment, peering out from between his fingers.

Hotch nodded. "What happened after I left?" he asked, trying to keep the shame from his voice. But how could he not? He felt like the one person in the group who left in the middle of the horror movie, too frightened and shaken to watch anymore. The person who had to pull back last minute, give up, and let the bigger man handle it all.

"They reduced his shoulder injury- they said it was an anterior dislocation, and didn't require surgery. They put him in a sling for it," he said, shrugging his shoulders and letting out a breath before adding, "He was starting to wake up when I left to find you. They're going to..." he swallowed hard here, rubbing his brow even deeper now as he forced himself to say it. "They're going to bring him up to the psych ward. They're trying to get in touch with the residential to see when they can transport him back."

Hotch nodded slowly. "And the trials?"

"They could arrange for him to have a pass to leave for the trials, and only the trials, and come back to stay at the hospital, if he wants. But it's all up to him by this point," Morgan answered. After a second, he sighed, his shoulders slumping heavily with the action. "Hotch, I...it's my fault. I upset him, I yelled at him...I-"

"Morgan," Hotch started, his voice only slightly raspy with sleep as he rose a hand to quiet his subordinate. Surprisingly and despite Morgan's fighting nature, the man fell silent, glancing up at his boss with wide, tired eyes. "He's a grown man who can make his own decisions. To be honest," he paused, swallowing hard as he looked down at the floor, suddenly finding the intricate weaving of carpet strands utterly fascinating. "The signs were there. We just weren't reading them. It was only a matter of time."

It hurt, admitting it. Admitting that even when he was so close- within arm's distance- Reid was still out of his grasp. That they were never quite there, never on time, to save him.

What if Reid hadn't reacted the way he did? What if he didn't get Morgan for help?

He squeezed his eyes shut at the image of a cold and white Reid, at the idea of walking into the room and finding his youngest agent dead. What would have happened? Who would have found him? Would it be Morgan, realizing something was wrong when he didn't get up for the trial? Or would it be Hotch, wandering in for an early morning pep talk that was already too late? What would they do? How would everyone react?

He hated himself, but he could see the way it would all unfurl, the reaction of each and every one of them, painted before his eyelids like a macabre scene- JJ and Garcia crying, comforting each other and their hysterics while Emily stayed off to the side in quiet shock, compartmentalizing the moment in a still frame she would revisit by herself when no one was witness to her breakdown. Morgan would deny it, he would be angry and explosive, he would disappear to the nearest gym and take down a weighted punching bag. He would argue it, he would demand the doctors find a cause of death that was anything but suicide. And Rossi would try to keep a level head through it all, he would try to be the wall against which everyone would lean. But Hotch would know that it was all a front, he would notice the way his eyes would linger far too long on Reid's lifeless body, on Reid's belongings that no longer belonged. To the world it might seem like resigning acceptance, but to Hotch it would be the subtle grief of one man who had simply lost the ability grieve, all of his tears spent long ago on victims whom he still continued to think about, mourn for.

And what would he do? Would Hotch respond by crying, loudly or to himself? Or would he become violent and out of control like Morgan?

No, in the end, he knew that he would do what he always did- he would bury himself in something prevalent, he would become purpose driven. It would start with the trial, he would focus entirely on getting Varney in jail, doing nearly as much- if not more- work as the lawyer. Doing anything that meant not thinking about Reid.

_'No,'_ he stopped himself. _'Reid's fine. It didn't happen. We got to him on time. We don't have to worry about it.'_ There's was no point in thinking about anything that didn't happen. Reid was alive, that was all that mattered. But how long would that last for? Reid was always coming so close...there was going to be a point where they didn't get there on time, where they weren't able to stop the UnSub from pulling the trigger, wouldn't there? There were only so many times they could swoop in and save him before..._poof!_ And he was lost forever.

The only thing was, Hotch never predicted that they might run the risk of Reid being the one to hold the gun.

They were masters of the criminal mind, not the mind of the victim.

Clearing his throat as he tried to rid himself of the depressing thoughts once and for all, he looked up at Morgan and said, "We should go back to the hotel. They won't let us up to visit him anyway and we have to be ready tomorrow- you're testifying and I have to..." he shifted uncomfortably in his seat before adding, "I have to explain to the team what's happening."

Morgan agreed, licking his lips as he began nodding. "Yeah, we have to be up in a couple hours so we might as well..." He stood, Hotch soon behind him. And together they left they hospital, stopping only to have a quick conversation with Dr. Hart about visitation and other such necessities.

xXx

It was eight in the morning, Reid noted, sparing a passing glance on the clock on his way to the shower room. Right now, the team would be on their way to court, on their way to face Varney without him.

He couldn't help but heave a sigh of relief, thankful that he wouldn't have to face the man again. When he had awoken that morning, groggy and fuzzy with the haze of drugs, he felt like he did that first morning, like he had rolled around in a pile of mud. Like a thick layer of grime was caked onto his skin. Like the cells that made up his tissues that made up his skin was moving erratically, making his entire body itch with the feeling of filth.

But worst of all he felt a dull, telling ache at the base of his spine, the memory so powerful he could even recall long forgotten pains. It was as if acknowledging Varney for the first time outside of his nightmares made his mind recall everything, and his body followed suit.

"Here is your towel, your washcloth, your shampoo and conditioner and your soap," the orderly said, alerting Reid to the real world with startlingly clarity. The orderly, a man named Chuck, was sitting in a chair in front of a side hall, only several yards in length and consisting of nothing but three doors on each side. A tray was placed in front of him, and he motioned to the pile of towels, and then the small disposable cups, each filled with dollop shampoo, and a pile of slim bars of wrapped soap beside it.

Reid looked up at him for a second before reaching out and grabbing one of each, juggling it unsteadily in his hands, his slung arm making the process even more difficult. "The water will last for about seven minutes each time you press the button, but it is preferred that you only press it once, no more than twice, as the other patients need to shower too," Chuck said, a smile on his face that did little to conceal his boredom. "After twenty minutes, we will check on you. The doors don't lock, so if you don't want to give a show to someone, I suggest taking no longer than ten minutes to get in and out." And with that, the greeting was done, Chuck having looked away and turning his attention to the next patient who wandered out of their room.

Reid turned into the hall, looking down at the various doors, some of which were closed tight and with the muffled sound of water running coming from behind it. He headed to the last one, the door ajar, and pushed it aside, slipping into the small room and closing the door with a click. When he turned around, he took in the room before him, which consisted of nothing more than a lone, one person shower and a chair, a hook hanging from the wall.

Placing his stuff onto the chair, he quickly stripped down- struggling immensely with the arm he was too afraid to move- and stepped into the small space, examining the button and nozzle before him before experimentally pushing it, instantly having a stream of water pour onto him. His muscles relaxed under the heat and he felt himself sighing under the slight pressure, his fingers twitching at his side with the temptation to scrub hard at his skin with the washcloth.

The water wasn't hot enough, but there was no way he could adjust it, the hospital probably having had multiple patients scorch themselves before transitioning to the simple button system. They only wanted you to be clean, they didn't care if you _felt_ clean.

Holding his arm to his chest, a painful ache of a reminder of his earlier struggles, he proceeded to wash himself, thankful that his hair was as short as it was- there was barely enough shampoo in the plastic containers to wash what little he had, never mind his longer locks from months back. He could barely even bring himself to properly wash it all out, standing under the shower and hoping that the pressure of the water would do it all for him as he ran the washcloth over his skin. It was made from soft material, softer than any towel he had felt. It would have been nice if they were made so soft for the comfort of their patients, but they weren't. They were made in that manner so that a patient would be unable to scrub layers of skin off, not so that they could feel luxury.

Still knowing this, he tried to dig the towel against his skin, succeeding only in turning the area red from the friction he created.

He didn't feel any cleaner.

In fact, he felt dirtier, as if the germs and bugs and grime that lingered over him were stronger now, immune to cleansers and attempts to sanitize the skin. Like the Super Bugs that were adapted to antibiotics, they clung to his body with a ferocity that would not be short lived, never to be removed. He felt disgusting.

He felt like he would never be clean again.

A yelping sound escaped from his throat, but died on his lips as he heard it echo around the tiled room. Surely, they would hear him. He needed to be quiet if he didn't want to alert the attention of the medical staff.

But it was so damn hard! All he wanted to do was rub at his skin with a _real_ towel, one that had a fraying weave to it, one that could actually peel everything off. Didn't they understand that? Didn't they know just how important it was to be clean?

_'No, of course they don't. Because they don't know what it feels like to be dirty,'_ he said to himself, bitterly. This never would have happened if he declined Morgan's invitation to go to the trials. He knew it was because of seeing _him_ that he felt so filthy, so jumpy, and the slight throb at the end of his spine.

He should have just stayed in the hospital. He wasn't strong enough for this. Why did he ever think he was?

He wasn't even strong enough to live a life that was spent in hospitals, what the hell made him think he could encounter that monster and just be fine?

Was that why he did it? Was it because of seeing Varney that he had decided to end it all? _'That has to be it,'_ he told himself, giving up on peeling the skin away from his torso as he sunk to clean his legs. _'I was alright, until I saw Varney. Then I tried to...do it.'_ He couldn't even say the words in his head, as though they were taboo, and speaking them aloud would be the condemning factor. If he didn't say those words, those damning syllables, than maybe it didn't happen. And he and the team could go on like he never did something so desperate, like he was never so close to death by his doing. Taking a steadying breath that was stifled by the hot and moist air, he continued to ponder the idea. _'It can't be a coincidence. Varney was what made me do it.'_

But even with his resolve made, he couldn't help but feel the slight twinge in his stomach, the little voice in his head that said, _'You're only using him as your reason so that you don't have to deal with the _real_ reason you did it.'_

He swallowed, leaning his head down as he watched water swirl down the drain, the dented platform of the shower stall drawing all of the liquid into the center. He was too smart- to knowledgeable of psychology- to know that the little voice- his subconscious, possibly- was correct.

So if Varney wasn't the reason, than what was?

The answer came to him, suddenly and without question. And he knew, with perfect understanding, exactly why he tried to do it.

But there was nothing he could do to stop it. He would have to learn to deal with it and live through it.

Didn't he? There was a solution to it, one thing he could do to stop the thing that had made him so desperate for escape. But would he be willing to do it? Could he actually go through with something so...altering? So permanent?

He couldn't- no, he would have to cope.

_'But it's too much,'_ he said to himself, sighing. His head was beginning to hurt from all the confusion and internal battles that were taking place. Why couldn't just one thing in his life be easy? Why could he have just one decision to make that didn't tear him apart?

It took only several unspoken phrases for him to lean towards one side thought. _'It's not worth it, anymore. The cons outweigh the pros. Is it really worth your sanity?'_ It wasn't. Nothing was worth his sanity, his happiness. How many smiles had been wasted because of it? How many days had he spent in misery when he could have been happy?

His decision made, he closed his eyes and leaned against the back wall, the shower shutting off only seconds later.

xXx

They were late.

Hotch had slept through his alarm, and Morgan had forgotten to set one. It wasn't until a flustered and irritated phone call from Rossi that Hotch lurched from his bed, stumbling over the tangle of blankets as he turned to look at the clock beside his bed. Dark eyes widened at the black numbers, telling him he had five minutes to get dressed and make it to the courthouse.

"Aaron? Aaron, you there?"

Shaking his head, he rubbed his face, hoping that the friction might steady his vision and and dull the tired ache in his eyes. "Yeah," he replied gruffly, pulling himself up. He needed coffee, he needed a shower, he need to get Morgan up...his head was dizzy with all the ways his mind was going, all the signals his body was sending. Waking up was really what he needed.

"Where are you guys?" Rossi asked, the agitation evident in his voice.

"At the hotel," he answered, falling to his knees as he began pulling a suit out of his luggage, having to pay more focus than he cared to admit to make sure the slacks and jacket were of a matching set.

There was a pause before Rossi said, in an incredulous and exasperated manner, "Still? Aaron, the trial is going to start-"

"I know that, Dave," he ground out in response, silencing the profiler with the ferocity in his voice. He sighed, pausing to gather his wits. While he was used to functioning on little sleep due to the priority of his job, he was pushing it, having gotten no more than two hours, coupled with all of the stress from the night before...

Reid was in the hospital. He had almost forgotten. Or rather, he wished he had. It seemed wrong that he was here in a hotel, resting up before heading into a trial, while Reid had been left in the hospital, suicidal. He should have stayed there with him, deep down he knew that. Reid shouldn't have to be alone, shouldn't think he was alone. Not as if it mattered- he already thought he was alone. Why else would he have taken a handful of pills?

A dry lump formed in his throat, straining his muscles. He rose his free hand- the other one idly holding the phone to his ear- and pressed it against the front of his neck, pushing down on his jugular. Was that what it felt like- Swallowing all of those tablets? Did he have to force it down, pushing a glob of disintegrating chemicals down his throat, tears forming in his eyes from the pain? Or did he take the pills one by one, lingering on the chalky and bitter taste, giving himself time to stop in case he began to regret the choice he made?

He hated himself, he knew, the second he hoped it was the first of the two options. It hurt more, knowing that Reid had given himself the opportunity to turn back but hadn't taken it, that he had committed himself to his pact.

"Is everything alright?"

He jumped, his body twitching as he turned to look at the phone. The answer died on his lips. He couldn't lie, not to Rossi, not to his team. But he couldn't tell him over the phone, not when the trial was due to start in only several minutes. He would have to wait now, as much as it would feel like he was withholding information, he had to. They needed to focus on the trial now, first and foremost.

He sighed. "I'll explain everything when I get there. We must have slept in...I'll get...we'll be there." He paused, unable to continue saying that he'd get Morgan up when he knew Rossi would realize he had exempted Reid from that statement.

But the unfortunate thing with dealing with high-class profilers is that it's not always what you say to them, but what you don't say. How foolish for Hotch to have overlooked this, as Rossi asked, after a brief second of silence, "Something happened with Reid, didn't it?"

Hotch hesitated. "Yes...he's fine but..."

Rossi interrupted him, knowing full well that he didn't have the time or the emotional bearings to hear about what had occurred now with their youngest teammate. "Alright, Aaron. You can tell me and the team when you get here. You guys take your time, Morgan's testimony isn't until the second half of the trial, it'll be better if you show up for that instead of interrupting the first half anyway."

"Okay," Hotch answered, too thankful for the opportunity to shower and eat a warm meal before heading out to argue. Too tired to argue. "I'll let you know when we're on our way, in that case. I'm sorry about this, Dave. Thank you for being so understanding."

"Even you deserve to rest, Aaron," came his only reply, causing a slight, fleeting smile to grace Hotch's features. Rest was too elusive a concept by this point in his life. Rest implied a fresh, awakened state. A clear and rejuvenated mind. He couldn't remember the last time he felt rested.

"Reid _is_ okay though, right?"

"Yes, he is." He had to bite his tongue to stop himself from saying_, 'If you stretch the definition of okay.'_ He really was becoming sardonic in his old age, wasn't he?

"Alright, you can share the details when you get in then. I'll see you soon." And with that, Rossi hung up, the worry in his voice only barely concealed.

Placing his phone down, Hotch stood and made his way over to the door conjoining his room with Morgan's. He decided that waking him up first would be the best course of action, so that both men could get ready in their own time. Raising his hand, he rapped on the door quickly and waited for several seconds before walking in, regardless of no response.

But Morgan wasn't in his bed, the covers no more than slightly rumpled, as if he hadn't slept in it at all.

Furrowing his brow, he stepped fully into the room, closing the door behind him. Where was he? His answer came to him when he turned to examine the far right of the room, releasing the breath he hadn't been aware of holding.

Fully dressed in the clothes he had worn to the hospital, Morgan laid spread eagle on Reid's bed, his left arm covering his eyes from the light he never turned off. His chest rose and fell in slow, peaceful movements, still deep in sleep.

If Hotch had to guess, he would assume that his agent hadn't the intention of falling asleep when he entered the room, and had only done so out of pure exhaustion. That Morgan had gone into the area, and, overwhelmed and most likely guilty with what had happened with Reid, taken to sitting on the young genius's bed instead of his own. However long he stayed there for before he succumbed to slumber and why it put him at peace, Hotch did not know. He did, nevertheless, know that the shielded and masculine man would be mortified if he awoke in this position, caught in his grief by another being. With that in mind, Hotch took great care in padding softly over the beige carpeting, towards the alarm clock. He quickly set it to go off in five minutes and then straightened, looking back at Morgan. The arm covering his eyes from view had slipped, revealing the swollen lids, puffy and blotchy with dried tears.

Hotch left the room, knowing the now set alarm clock would awaken his teammate, all the while telling himself that he wasn't turning his back on another agent, not this time.

xXx

"I'll drive," Morgan said, grabbing the keys to the SUV off the table as he and Hotch stood simultaneously, stretching his long muscles out. They had just finished getting ready and had decided to head over to a local diner for breakfast before going to the courthouse. They did have quite some to spare, as it was, and the idea of warm food sounded good to their very empty stomachs- when was the last time they properly ate? Sat down for a meal instead of holding themselves over with food from a vending machine or prepackaged snacks from convenience stores? No, a plate of fresh cooked food sounded all too enticing to pass up.

They headed out the door, Morgan having spent the last several minutes in Hotch's room as the superior finished a phone call with Reid's doctor. He had wanted to ask about the conversation, but decided to save it for over breakfast, knowing that the talk would make the intimate setting less stifling. Besides, the drained and stressed look marring Hotch's face had been enough to keep him silent.

He had awoken that morning, not even aware he had fallen asleep in the first place. And when he finally managed to figure out how to turn off the damned alarm clock, short, of course, of throwing it across the room, he pulled himself up from _Reid's_ bed and sat down on his own, deciding it suddenly felt far less _right_.

While his intelligence seemed small and unremarkable when placed next to that of Reid's, it was often understated on just how smart and intuitive he was. Sure, he couldn't tell you what he decidedly dubbed as mundane and arbitrary facts, or complete a complicated calculus formula using only his head, or solve a linguistic mystery, but _he_ did hold his own degrees, he was well taught in the areas that mattered to him.

And he could tell you with damnable certainty that the alarm clock was set by someone other than himself or Reid.

Hotch, of course, was the obvious solution. No one had set the alarm the previous night, something that was a sort of a ritual for the young agent seconds before he laid down for bed. And even if it had been set, it would have been so for an earlier time that would have given Morgan ample preparation before the trials.

No, he had reasoned that Hotch awoke, from whatever source, and when he came to get Morgan up, had seen the state he was in, had seen the still almost fresh tears. And, to save both men their pride and uncomfortable moment, he set the alarm to do the job for him. He really was grateful of it, not having to explain why exactly he had slept on Reid's bed, not having to pretend like, only hours earlier, he hadn't been crying. Albeit, soft crying that didn't quite make it down the expanse of his cheek, but crying nonetheless.

He would have done well at it though, if he had too.

They had all gotten remarkably wonderful at pretending.

"They spoke to Reid," Hotch said, startling Morgan from his thoughts. "The doctors. They will be keeping him there for immediate and emergency observation, for at least three days, before sending him back to the residential facility."

Morgan nodded, his eyes focusing on the stretch of road. He wasn't surprised, not in the slightest. He had known that that would be his choice, that it should have been his choice all along. It was for the best, in the end.

"They also said he's requesting to speak to me."

Now that was something new.

Sending his chief a sidelong glance, he raised a thick eyebrow and said, "Oh yeah? Did they mention about what exactly?"

Hotch shook his head slowly. "No. They just said that he spent about five minutes pestering the nurses at the station to pass along the information. He also said that it was about something important, and the doctor said I should come during visiting hours today, as soon as possible."

"Do you think he'll tell you why he did it?" The question was spoken softly, after a moment, as if it were an afterthought to ask, as if the younger man had been debating with himself on whether or not to say it. But Hotch could only roll his shoulders.

"I'm not sure."

He pulled into the parking lot of the diner now, settling the large SUV into the back where there were no other vehicles to get in the way. Turning off the ignition, he turned to Hotch and asked, "What visiting hours are you going to?"

Hotch remained silently for a moment, his gaze focused on the gray dashboard of the vehicle, his jaw clenching as he thought. Slowly, he looked to Morgan and said, "I think I'll skip on the trial today. That way we can talk in private about whatever it is he wants to discuss."

Morgan nodded, agreeing with the plan as he opened his car door and stepped out.

xXx

**Author's Note:**** to my dear reader, CMSP, you should be a personal trainer, as you are wonderful at whipping people into shape! This chapter has actually been completed for some time, but I haven't had any chances to fine tune it.**

**About a year ago, my sister moved in with her 2 year old son. And about two months ago, we found out her son has stage four neuroblastoma, a type of childhood cancer. Unfortunately, things have been really hectic trying with this, and stress has a created a sort of writer's block so that when I do have free time, I can't think.**

**That being said, I greatly apologize, as I know this chapter is not up to par at all, and it had a long time coming. I had the intentions of fixing it, but in the end I've decided a chapter is better than none.**

**I do not plan on discontinuing this story, and hopefully once this chapter is up and running, the block will be gone.**

**Thank you all for your patience! **


	35. Chapter 35

**Disclaimer:****Criminal Minds and all its associated characters are property to CBS and no profit is being made from this story.**

**Chapter Thirty-Five: Loneliness**

_'...Yes, they're sharing a drink they call loneliness; but it's better than drinking alone...' -Billy Joel, The Piano Man_

It was almost funny, in a sort of sardonic, making-the-best-of-things sense. While Reid had been imprisoned, time had become irrelevant. It was a popular technique often used by criminals who held someone captive known as sensory deprivation. Don't let them know the time of day, don't let them know the hour, don't let them know the time spent in your hell, and eventually, you'll break them. Removing the stimuli can sometimes be considered calming, like a respite for your brain. The thought of people doing it willingly for relaxation was enough to make the young doctor scoff and question the sanity of those many people.

As for him, it was maddening. No windows, no consistent routine, no clock...he couldn't be sure if he slept for an hour or for the day in that basement. He had been forced to rely on his tormentor in order to have some semblance of where he stood in the time line of that moment.

But in a hospital, it was the exact opposite. With windows so wide one rose with the sun, minutes before woken by staff, it was hard to ignore the pressing daylight. While it might have been a subtle form of light therapy, it was irksome, and he found himself struggling to shield the blinding yellow light from his eyes.

It was a tiring routine- one with even stricter guidelines than at the residential. Of course, back there they applauded the simple act of eating and anything more would have been asking too much. Here, no one seemed to care that seven was too early a time to wake up, or that maybe he was going to be hungry at eleven thirty instead of twelve thirty. Or that he'd rather read for an hour than be forced to do arts and crafts (he found he was quite deft with pipe cleaners, and had spent a solid fifty-three minutes twisting them into various shapes- from complicated hydrocarbon bonds in organic compounds to farmyard animals.)

It was one planned activity after one planned therapy after one planned activity. Pause for food. Then repeat.

If possible, adhering to this schedule was more exasperating than having no distinguished time frame.

"Spencer," he heard a voice calling and he groaned into his mattress, hoping it wasn't a nurse coming to collect him for some group therapy session. He could have sworn the scheduled 'quiet time' had just started.

A small fist rapped on his door.

"Spencer, you have a visitor."

That piqued his interests. Pushing the pillow off his head, wincing as the unrestrained bright lights flooded his vision, he rose up in his bed and watched as the petite nurse stepped aside, ushering in the tall figure of Aaron Hotchner.

He sighed in relief. Hotch.

He hadn't expected him to come so quickly- wasn't the trial still in session?

"Thank you," Hotch said at the retreating nurse before pulling up a desk chair and sitting beside Reid, carefully eyeing the arm secured to his chest and the sunken look in his eyes.

There was a moment of silence, of inspection and discomfort, where Hotch's dark eyes trailed over Reid's form- the shaggy hair, mussed from sleep, the dark bruises in the unmistakeable shape of a broad hand colored the sickly paleness of Reid's upper arms. He hadn't realized how hard Morgan had grabbed him when he induced vomiting, and his eyes widened at the sight. How frightened the agent must've been for his friend in order to forget his strength so greatly.

And Reid fell under his gaze, crumpled under the awful scrutiny. He should have just said what he needed to say over the phone, foregoing the awkward moment in which Hotch studied him the way he would an UnSub, cold and without attachment.

What must he see? A broken patient? A fallen agent? A hopeless child? Or did he just see him for what he was- a too skinny, too pale, too beaten man, body littered in scars and healing wounds- some of which were self inflicted? A straggly mental patient, trying desperately to get better but not knowing how?

He twisted his hand in the blanket, sweat lingering under the sling against his chest as he swallowed harshly, waiting for Hotch to ask what he had wanted to talk about.

But the next words had surprised him.

"When Foyet killed Haley I thought I might as well stop bothering."

Startled, Reid looked up, hazel eyes wide and questioning. But Hotch wasn't looking at him anymore. Instead, he had focused his attention on the sun that seemed ever present in the large windows, the small, chain links of the cage in front of the casement shining the dark orange of rust in the light.

"I was the reason she died, you know," he continued, barely paying notice to Reid's sudden shake of his head, his mouth dropping open to protest the statement. "It's true, and everyone knows it. I had the power to make the killings stop. But I couldn't do it...I couldn't let a murderer walk and allow the families of his victims to feel like they would never know peace. And what if...what if something happened to me, and I died before Foyet? It wouldn't be surprising...with how often we get into stand offs with the UnSub...and not to mention the stress alone..."

He trailed off, shifting in his chair. He looked decidedly uncomfortable, like he was waiting for Reid to tell him to stop, that he didn't need to hear any of this. And he considered saying it, considered raising a hand and changing the topic. But he couldn't, his intrigue making him immobile, his want to know too consuming. He might possibly be the only person to ever hear any of this, how could he turn it down? It was selfish, but he made no motion to stop this.

Hotch took a steadying breath. "I thought that we would find him before anything happened, I guess you could say I was over confident. But then...then he found her. And he tricked her." His words hitched, like he was speaking over tears. And he probably was, his eyes pressed tight against the painful memory as he tried to collect himself, regain his standing. Reid bowed his head, out of respect, knowing the man was struggling enough to let him listen to these words, and the least the young agent could do was make it so he didn't have to watch his reaction.

"I don't think I regretted anything so much as not taking Foyet's bait. As much as I know it was the best thing to do, to continue looking for him, a part of me wished I hadn't. What if he had gotten Jack too? I couldn't...couldn't lose both...they..."

Reid winced at the pain he heard in his boss's voice, and in a moment of sympathy, shook his head. "Hotch-"

"No, Reid." The roughness in his voice frightened him, and he looked up, his eyes meeting Hotch's. The slight shine of tears could be made out on the lower lid, but he remained unwavering, his face the tight, emotionless mask it normally was. "You need to hear this."

So he fell silent, feeling wrong, like he shouldn't be listening to any of this. But he had been given explicit permission to do so, and was even told he _needed_ to.

Hotch sighed, returning to his story. "Like I said, when Foyet killed Haley, I thought I might as well stop trying. I tried helping innocent people, it ruined the best relationship I've ever had. I thought of getting a desk job, but then Haley's death would have been in vain. It seemed like no matter what I did it was the wrong choice. So why bother?

"I know what you're feeling, in my own way, Reid. No one feels pain the same way, not even for two people who experience the same exact things in the same exact circumstances. So, I can't say for certain that I know what it feels like to have been through what you went through, not even those five other men can say they felt exactly what you felt."

He paused for a moment, letting the words sink in, watching as Reid bit his lip and curled inward slightly, his face flickering with the remembered pain.

"At first, you didn't want to believe it happened. It didn't matter how illogically you had to think, how much you had to alter your perception. You turned it around, tried to tell yourself it didn't happen- couldn't have, and then you'll wake up from the nightmare. But then...then you don't wake up. And you become angry because it happened and- with all your training and expertise- you let it happen. So you blame someone else so that you don't have to shoulder the responsibility and shame.

"I blamed Foyet, for his sick nature. I blamed whatever happened in his life to make him that way. I even blamed Haley...for not keeping her guard up and being more careful."

Reid was listening intently now, his eyes focusing on the interwoven strands of cotton that made up the thin hospital blanket. He remembered the day Haley died in more detail than he would've liked. He remembered the exact misplacement of fallen and broken furniture, the sound of footsteps as they marched purposefully across the floor, the exact color of blood- the different shades of red forever staining the carpet.

If the memories of that day were enough to make Reid shudder and fight back tears, what must it be like for his unit Chief? Reid remembered everything in near perfect clarity, a blessed curse of his eidetic memory. But there was so much to it than just having instant visual recall and knowing exactly where something was placed and how the body was positioned. What he saw was the house, ruined and home to a crime scene. Picture perfect images, not a single thing out of place from how it had actually been, photographs taken by his mind.

But someone without that ability had to have seen it a different. Maybe the shape of the couch and the color of walls faded away in Hotch's memory, becoming nonexistent and ceasing to be important. Maybe all Hotch could see was Haley's blood covered body, listless and splayed on the no-longer-colored carpet. Maybe he didn't see anything when he thought back. Maybe a veil of emotions kept it hidden from view, and all he could remember was the heart stopping fear, the sudden pang of failure and lost all mingled into one awful thing. Feeling Haley's form, holding it to him, searching for the rapidly disappearing warmth and ignoring the slick feeling of his fingers sliding over blood, of having it stain his shirt.

Which was worse? Seeing everything for what it was, or feeling everything?

"But in the end, Reid, it didn't matter whose fault it was. Because it happened. And placing blame and responsibility doesn't make the hurt go away. Blaming people won't make it so that Jack will hear his favorite bed time story read to him by his mom. It won't give Jessica her sister back. And I won't ever have a second chance with my wife.

"But at the same time, wishing something would change is no better. Jack doesn't deserve to lose both his parents- one to a gun, the other to grief. And my team doesn't deserve to lose a unit chief because of a..." he closed his eyes here, thinking of just the right words to use. Finally, he opened them and sighed, finishing, "Because an UnSub was one step ahead of us. And the only thing we can do, is force ourselves to get better because of those people who don't deserve to lose us. At the time, it seems like a burden. Like everyone else is being selfish, wanting you to get up in the morning and do something when all you want to do is crawl further under those blankets. But then there's a moment were it doesn't seem like a such a burden."

Suddenly, the ghost of a smile lifted his face, his eyes glassy with tears and haunted by his speech. And then he looked up at Reid, shaking his head, exhaling a breath. "For me, it was knowing that Jack missed her too. I don't know why that was it, it should've been something a bit more drastic I think...But knowing I wasn't the only one who was in pain made it easier for me to move on so that I could help out my son with the death of his mother.

"Eventually, Spencer," he started again, the use of the first name not lost to the young agent, "You'll realize the earth is still rotating. And you'll find the thing that makes it okay to move on again. You just have to keep going."

Numbly, and after a tentative moment, Reid shook his head, the sound of his heart loudly pulsing in his ear- _could Hotch hear it too?_ His boss- his private, stoic boss- had just opened up a part of him he surely kept well locked for no one to see, and let only his youngest agent hear. Had he felt his words would help? That the moment of letting his boundaries down would be beneficial to him, even if it was a difficult task to overcome?

Reid swallowed harshly. The knowledge- and privilege to know such knowledge- was special to him, and he couldn't let this openness be in vain by ignoring his advice. He had to at least try.

"Now," Hotch started suddenly, his voice calm and commanding, any remnants of the last twenty minutes gone and swept away. "What did you want to talk to me about?"

xXx

"You can wait right here, Agent Jareau," the nurse said, nodding her head to one of the chairs in the dining hall she had just unlocked as the slender blonde slipped through. "I'll get you when Agent Hotchner is done with his visit, alright?"

JJ nodded eagerly, her tendrils of blonde hair whipping against her fevered face. "Thank you," she said, breathy and winded as though she had run the several miles from the courthouse to the hospital instead of driving. The nurse nodded and left, leaving the agent in the small room made up of only three tables, six chairs placed around each table.

She nearly accosted Emily for the keys when Morgan had told them what had happened. That Spencer- lovely, innocent Spence- had just tried to end his life. How could they have not seen it? How is that trained profilers- the best of the best!- had missed not one, but two sadistic serial killers, and the signs of suicide that in hindsight were present in the young man?

The answer was there before she even had to summon it. Denial. The were in denial that Reid was sick, just as Reid was in denial that he fit the victimology. It was a continuous loop, an endless cycle of denial and regret. It was getting old quick.

She laid her head down on the table, the laminate cooling her forehead. What had she'd done wrong? She tried so hard- she tried giving him space, she tried opening up to him...but nothing seemed to work, like he was intent on being miserable.

Miserable...it seemed so foreign a adjective to use when describing Dr. Reid. While he most certainly retained what Garcia often called a 'kicked puppy look' he was by no means miserable. Was he? She tried to recall those nebulous moments before the Catskills, before the file was placed on her desk.

She remembered sitting around two tables pushed together in a Chinese restaurant, teasing and laughing as the intelligent agent struggled to work the eating utensils, fumbling the chopsticks in between his dexterous fingers and trying to carry the food- noodle by peanut sauce covered noodle- up to his mouth, held precariously between the two end of the chopsticks.

She remembered Reid walking into the bullpen, ridiculous get up and all, as he taught them about Halloween in only the way an overexcited genius could.

She remembered Reid's shameful admission about his childhood, about his mother, and his fear of becoming like her. The contradiction he felt of loving her and wanting to be nothing like her surreal, like it had been penned by Shakespeare's very hand in a long forgotten manuscript.

Everything about Reid was ethereal- not in a handsome, god like way (Reid was good looking, and 'adorable' in Garcia's own words, but lacked the physical prowess and confidence that gods were often associated with.) No, Reid was ethereal simply in who he was. A child from a home that was beyond broken, a home that was shattered into little shards of glass that pricked his hands and left lasting scars when he tried to put it back together. A child who had no solace, no friends to huddle around with at school, no mother's embrace to hold him and kiss his tears away, not consistently at least. A child who never really grew up, but was simply thrown into adulthood all the same, saw things no one should ever see. And yet...he seemed happy.

_'No,'_ JJ admonished in her thoughts, with such ferocity she nearly slammed her hand through the table. He was never happy, now that she thought about it. Barely happy was the term she would use. Happy as he thought he could ever be. He laughed with them, and loved them, and even called them his family...but he wasn't happy. He was hanging on to the proffered hand of acceptance, wanting more but too grateful for what he already had to seek it.

If he was less passive, how different would his life be? Would he have friends outside of the BAU? Would he spend his weekends out in the town or on a friend's couch with a bottle of wine instead of curled up in his armchair, book in hand and several more to the side? Would he even have a girlfriend?

Something twitched inside her chest at the notion, like someone stretched out her heartstrings and strummed them like a single chord on a guitar. She was jealous, she knew, at the idea of another girl- a nameless, faceless, imaginary girl- arm in arm with Spence.

Did he even want a girlfriend? She knew he did have an interest in relationships, if only a natural, boyish curiosity, but did that really mean he cared enough to commit to a full time girlfriend? He was so private, so secluded to himself, that she didn't quite think he would truly welcome another into his life.

But maybe that was what he needed. Not necessarily someone to love him- Spencer was more than capable of functioning in life without needing validation. But maybe what he needed was someone to wake up to, someone to have the coffee ready when he slept in, someone to smile at his quirks instead of raising a brow and gigging behind his back.

Someone to just make him feel less alone.

And somewhere along the lines, she came to the conclusion that she wanted to be that person.

But did Reid?

"JJ?"

She jumped, a gasp leaving her lips as she shook her head, blinking dreamily as she looked up at Hotch.

"Oh...Hotch..."

"You came to visit Reid?" he asked, and she nodded, slowly.

She would go to hell and back for him, a psychiatric ward was no different.

"Well, he's ready to speak to you now, if you were waiting for me to leave," he said, nodding his head to indicate the direction of Reid's room. She nodded, standing as she hoisted her bag over her shoulder. But the look in her boss's eyes stopped her, and she paused, narrowing her gaze.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

He lowered his eyes to the floor, clearly ruminating whatever it was that weighed down on his mind. After a second, he looked up and his lips twitched in a failed attempt at a forced smile. "Nothing, JJ. Everything's going as best as it can be," he answered carefully, each word chosen with precision.

She opened her mouth to question further but he dismissed her quickly.

"I have some paperwork to fill out now. Enjoy your visit." And with that, he turned and left, leaving only the squeak of well polished dress shoes in his wake.

Something about his look terrified her. It was the same look he wore when Reid first disappeared, and when he had told her Reid was gone, and in his place a puppet hollowed out by Andrew. It was the look of losing an agent.

She stepped out of the room, her footsteps pounding in tune with her heart, and the nurse pointed her in the right direction, where a nameplate by the door had a strand of scotch tape stretched over it, bearing the name _Spencer._

The door was open, and she could see Reid's silhouette. He was sitting on his bed, writing quickly and intently in a marble composition book, his hair flailing somewhat to the side, awkwardly holding the book down with his slung arm. The image made her smile.

It took her back to those times, watching Reid scribble in his paperwork at his desk, his long curls getting in the way, seemingly oblivious or uncaring to Morgan slipping some extra sheets onto his already decent sized pile.

She shattered the image though by knocking on the door, alerting Reid to her presence.

She wasn't sure what she was expecting. From the way Hotch had reacted, she thought he would have digressed. That he would lunge at her, claiming she was a hallucination. Yelling at her to leave him alone.

The smile was unexpected.

"You came to visit?" he said, the slight tilt to his voice showing his surprise.

She smiled back, relieved to find he seemed fairly...happy. "Of course. I had to wrestle Emily for the keys and argue why I wasn't important to trials to come, but I made it through the fight. And everyone else will be coming in soon."

His smile slipped, and then fell. "Oh, alright..."

She frowned. "Aren't you happy to see them?"

He shook his head furiously. "No, I am! I just..." he sighed, then managed a sad smile. "It's a long story better left for later, alright?"

She nodded, no really understanding but enjoying this new light-hearted Spencer. _'Why did Hotch look so sad?'_

No, this young man looked nothing like what she thought a suicidal patient would look like. He looked renewed, like he had been given a new lease on life. Maybe the pills did work into his system, and in his death, the old Spencer returned.

Somehow, she didn't think overdoses worked that way though.

She lowered her bag onto the desk provided to all rooms and eyed the chair Hotch had pulled up briefly before walking towards the side of his bed and laying her palm beside him. "Can I sit here?"

He smiled slowly and nodded, moving over so she had room. Once settled, she let her gaze wander over to his spiky handwriting over the lined pages. "What are you working on?" she asked, trying to read the page. But he quickly snapped the book shut and placed it on his bedside table.

"Just...some notes," he said idly in a tone that closed the conversation. She pinched her lips, nodding out of respect as she stared at the black and white spotted cover.

"Can I make a confession?"

She startled at the sudden question, and turned to look at him. His head was bowed, and he was focusing on his cuticles, a faint blush covering his cheek.

"Yeah...sure," she answered uncertainly.

He licked his lips. "Do you remember how you read to me, after the car accident?"

Now she was blushing, remembering the night she laid her book down and crawl into Reid's bed- without invitation, and without even a consensual agreement. Did he find out? Had a nurse from the hospital told him what happened? Was he angry and going to yell at her now? She swallowed roughly.

"Of course..." she answered slowly, testing the waters.

"I was awake the whole time," he admitted, his face turning a painfully bright red now as he ducked his head even further, trying to hide behind the curtain of hair that had been cut off prior to leaving his the residential facility.

JJ leaned back, quirking her brows at the confession. He was...awake? Well that certainly wasn't what she was expecting to hear. He didn't answer when she had called him several times, hadn't protested when she laid down in his bed. Had he...had he wanted her to? His arm had wrapped over her, protectively, but she had assumed that was a reaction to feeling someone move closer, a meaningless impulse while sleeping. Had he been conscious even through that?

She wasn't sure how to feel. Angry that he had tricked her? Most certainly not. It was endearing, almost. Upset that he hadn't told her the truth from the beginning? A little, but she hadn't exactly been so open now had she? Happy that he had wanted her to stay?

With no other reasonable action to take, she started to chuckle, the light, airy sound becoming deeper and louder as it turned into a laugh. Reid's head shot up, his face wry in confusion. Why was she laughing?

"JJ?" he asked slowly, wondering what in the world could be so funny, unless she was laughing at him.

She waved a hand in front of her face as her laughter died down. "I...I'm sorry. I just...I should have know...I'm sorry, I'm a little...embarrassed."

Reid knitted his brow. "Why should you be embarrassed?"

She looked at him, her lips pulled upward into a pretty smile as she said, "Spencer, you pretended to be asleep, but I practically threw myself on you and slept in your bed without...well, I guess you did know. But the idea is still there."

Reid's face stilled, his expression indiscernible as he steeled himself and looked up into JJ's eyes. His eyes focused sharply, burning intensely into her own as his pupils slowly began to dilate, taking in her appearance more fully. His lip twitched slightly as he said in a low and hesitant voice, "I could have asked you to leave, if I wanted you to." He paused, letting his gaze slip slightly. "I just...didn't want you too."

"Spence...?" she asked quietly, feeling both uncomfortable in the sudden turn of events and wanting them to continue.

Reid swallowed slowly and added, "Hotch told me that there would be something...something that makes me realize it will all be okay again. I don't know what it is, because nothing in my life was ever..." he shrugged, chewing his lip as he struggled to find the right words. "Nothing was ever okay. It was acceptable, I guess. But not okay. I would just think about how eager everyone was to leave work for day...Morgan wanted to go to a club, Garcia wanting to join him, Hotch wanting to get home to Jack...and I would realize that...unlike everyone else, I was happier at work than I was at home.

"I don't know what could make everything normal again, and I don't think I want it to be normal anyway. I want it to be...better."

He refused to meet her eyes now, staring at his lap as he pulled at loose threads in the blanket, making them even looser. His body was humming with anxiety, his bones trying to break free of his skin and run away. He needed to stand- to walk and to move. But he couldn't- it was now or never and he had already made it so far, he needed to see it through to the end. So, trying to still the quiver of his body and block out the pounding noise of his heart, he closed his eyes- for once not wanting to take anything in- and said, "I'm only saying this now, because I told Hotch something that will...change everything. And if it works out the way I want it to, than it will be okay. It will be more than okay. But if it doesn't, it will still be okay because...I won't have to be reminded of what I could have had every day."

To say JJ was lost was an underestimate. Everything Reid was saying was both sending her swooning and then making her want to call a nurse over immediately. What had him and Hotch discussed? What could have been said that would simultaneously make Reid look so...Reid again? So vindicated, so free of restraints, but at the same time make him see only one of two ways that his life could go? She was hanging on to every word now, not sure what she expected him to say and even less sure of what he would say.

"JJ..." he started, sighing as he returned his gaze back to her. "You're one of the nicest, most amazing people I've ever met in my life-"

She willed her body to remain still, wanting to grab the nearest doctor she could find. Was he saying his final goodbyes?

"You're smart and confident and compassionate...and beautiful." He had to ground the word out, his cheeks burning a brilliant crimson now. After a second of opening his mouth and snapping it shut several times, his lips twitching, he finally said, "And I think I'm in love with you."

xXx

**Author's Note:**** I thank you all for you condolences, it means so much to have you all keep my nephew in your prayers. He has been doing better, and even though he has some bad reactions to his treatment here and there, he's making a lot of progress (he even has frequent temper tantrums, so he clearly hasn't lost his spunk! Lol) **

**I know a whole lot doesn't happen in this chapter, but I think this was a nice little place to end it. The next chapter will be similar to this one in that there isn't a lot of action, but a good deal of progression in the actual plot. Hope this format is driving you all crazy right now!**

**I hope you all enjoyed it!**


	36. Chapter 36

**Disclaimer:****Criminal Minds and all its associated characters are property to CBS and no profit is being made from this story.**

**Author's Note:**** So, two things.**

**First, I want to thank each and every one of you for your support and your patience. As of right now, my nephew, Josh, is receiving surgery to remove the last of his tumors and will hopefully be stealing my dinosaur stuffed animals and my boyfriend's attention again in no time! So, thanks again for being so understanding, it's incredibly appreciated.**

**Second, since my leave, it would appear Fanfiction has allowed for stories to now have their own images or "book covers". I have been secretly wanting this feature for years and now that we have it...I realize the only art I can do is the physical form, not the digital type. Anyone who can do it is quite honestly a god to me.**

**So, that being said...CONTEST! If you feel charitable and have some free time, make an image to be the cover of the Doctor's Patient and send it to me. I'll choose a winner by the end of the story and use that as the cover. Send a pm if you're interested! Thanks!**

**And now, without much adieu...**

**Chapter Thirty-Six: Saying Goodbye**

_'Never say goodbye, because goodbye means going away and going away means forgetting.' -J.M. Barrie_

The words of Reid's confession hung in the air, suspended and expanding to the size of the small room itself, infesting the once clean and purified oxygen molecules with a poisonous substance. He tried to swallow it back down, closed his eyes in the hope that if he closed them hard enough, everything would cease to exist. What was it about pain and regret that made your entire knowledge of physics fly out the oversized, sun-filled window?

If possible, the ensuing silence was even more poisonous, and he could have sworn he felt the air grow thicker, more viscous. Instantaneously, he regretted ever saying anything. What had he been thinking? What sort of reality altering high had his and Hotch's talk induced? What had been said that made him feel so untouchable all of sudden?

Lowering his head to his hands, he said, blush creeping over his cheek, "Nevermind. Forget I said anything." He tossed the blanket that was laying over his legs aside, shuffling to the end of the bed. He stood, wobbling slightly as his body- still dizzy with the remnants of the drugs- swayed in place.

"Spence," he heard JJ say, pressingly, but he continued to pad to the door, having to take small steps and lean against the wall to ensure he wouldn't embarrass himself further by falling to the ground. "Spence wait," she called again.

"I need to speak to the nurse...the doctor...you should just leave, visiting hours are almost over anyway," he mumbled, receiving an eye roll from the blonde.

Reid had always been stubborn, a trait she thought stemmed from him having to practically survive on his own. More importantly, he had also always had incredibly low self-esteem. The genius had been forced to grow up long before his time, but unfortunately learning to be confident in oneself had not been with the territory. He was shy, and awkward, and never seemed to feel certain with who he was unless his precious facts and science were there to back him up.

She knew he wasn't the person she should've been attracted to. Girls were drawn to strong men, with bulking forms and healthy builds. It was part of nature, primitive as it were, that women needed men who could fight their way to live, produce offspring that could do the same. Genetically speaking, she shouldn't be attracted to the lanky, sinewy form of Dr. Spencer Reid. She shouldn't find his complete lack of grace and footing adorable, and she shouldn't have loved the way he fell into his world of books and spoke of facts like they were scripture. She had heard his rants before, had recalled him saying, with blushing cheeks, that men were attracted to curvier women with shiny, full hair and lush red lips because it meant they were more ideal mates. And that women were no different.

But she defied all logic and found herself head over heels in love with him as well. He was by no means what was considered an ideal mate, but dammit all to hell, she loved the little quirks that made Reid...well, Reid.

And she wasn't going to let him run away from his confession.

"Spence, please, let's talk," she said, tentatively reaching out and placing a hand on his shoulder. She felt her mistake immediately as the muscles tightened beneath his skin and slim hospital shirt. She retracted her hand, muttering a string of apologies, but the damage had been done. And he had swiveled around on the balls of his feet, eyes wide and gaping as he fell back against the wall, his legs finally giving out beneath him.

"D-don't," he begged, the whimpering noises that laced the letters stabbing through her heart.

"Spence...I...I'm sorry," she said weakly, her brow furrowed. He had never reacted this way to her touch before. Why had it bothered him just now?

But the look in his eyes said that he was already gone, that her touch had pushed him back inside the caverns that was his mind, hiding in the shadows now as the more deranged Reid that lived between reality and the past lurched forward, a wild, fearful look about him. "Please! Stop!" he yelled out, scrambling further back so that he was pressed against the pale green wall. "Please! It hurts!"

Her head was shaking as she knelt before him, waving her hands feebly in front of her face as she attempted to calm him down without touching him any further. Her cheeks- now red with the combined heat of her tears and anxiety of the moment- itched from the salt water and she tried to soothe him with her words.

"Spence...please, listen to my voice. It's me...JJ."

"You're not real!" he argued.

Her blue eyes widened. No. She wouldn't let him revert back to this.

"Nonono, I am real. I'm just as real as you," she urged, but her words were drowned out by the thundering of footsteps. Reid's calls for help had been answered in the form of three orderlies and two nurses.

"What happened?" the nurse asked, the slight jump to her voice betraying the calm she tried to portray.

JJ was stammering, stumbling over her words. "I...I don't...he..."

"NO!"

Her voice was cut off by the sharp command barked out by Reid, responding to an orderly who had attempted to lift him from the floor.

"Don't touch him," JJ said, moving to step forward only to be stopped by a nurse.

"They'll calm him down, I'm going to need you to step out of the room..."

Just then Reid lashed out, his hands and feet slicing through the air as he fought the three men coming towards him, trying to wriggle his lithe form between them to freedom but they were faster than him, catching hold of his wrists and ankles. Even as he tried to use the bulky dressing and sling that held his arm to his chest as a weapon, they avoided his blows easily. But the contact only caused him to react more violently, and he thrashed out, using all of his body as he bucked forward and back, swung his hips this way and that, in an attempt to get out of their tightening grasps.

"They can't touch him!" she yelled, anger pounding in her temple and making her blood boil. Why weren't they listening?

The nurse standing in front of her sighed in frustration and tried to nudge the petite blonde towards the door, to no avail. "It's called holding. We try to save sedatives as a last resort."

Her jaw dropped open. "It's inhumane! Touching makes it worse!"

But no one listened to her, the attention drawn to the small man who had just knocked over a desk chair, causing a loud bang to fill the room.

'She stood aside, disjointed from the sea of nurses and doctors, the flailing limbs that slowed as he was 'held'. But the orderly, only slightly larger than Reid himself but with a more fine tuned form, had just managed to gain the upperhand, holding his body against the panicking man and pinning him to the floor, his forearms trying to lock Reid's own swinging arms against his sides, seemingly too rough on his already slung arm.

It was barbaric, and the sight of it churned her insides. "Stop! Please! You're scaring him!" she tried to call over the cacophony, her words holding little semblance amongst the shouts coming from the orderlies, the grunts from the man holding Reid down, and the pleas that were emitting from the agent himself, his voice only an octave above a whisper, but somehow demanding a full audience, resonating louder than all the others.

"No! Stop...Andrew...make him stop..."

And he was picked up, just like a rag doll, his hands still held to his side as another orderly took hold of his knees, binding them. Together, they deposited him on his bed, the third and final orderly pulling the restraints from the side of the bed and locking them down onto his ankles...

His waist...

His wrist from his good arm...

His chest...

And all the while the man, his eyes held shut as though the whole world would melt away, muttered and pleaded for help that wouldn't come, for the hands to just go away.

Her throat tightened, clenching within her neck. How was this better than sedating him?

He pulled against the bindings, the leather only causing him to sweat even more, the salty fluid already slicked over his whole body, his hospital issued pants and shirts sticking to his skin. He was exhausted, his movements sluggish and weary as he felt the adrenaline wear out of his system, the panic of being tied down weighing on his chest.

Cautiously, he opened his eyes, the image before him dizzying. The scene alternated confusingly, flickering images of Andrew and Varney that gave way to the even more nebulous forms of men in white scrubs. His breath was heavy and ragged as he tried to focus on what lay before him. He could feel the stabbing pain at the base of his spine, the wetness of tacky blood and seminal fluid sticking the gown and bed sheets to his buttocks.

But he felt the occasional poke and prod of hands that weren't there. The tight clasp of scratchy fabric covering his upper arm as his blood pressure was taken. A cold, metal prong was thrust into his ear, accompanied with a high pitched beep. A thermometer.

Where was he?

Twisting his head to the side, his vision swimming with the movement and blotchy with multi-colored stars, it took several seconds for his sight to clear as well as it would. As if looking through a gossamer veil, he saw the shadow forms surrounding him, could hear the muffled voices. Was there cotton in his ears?

And just like that, the image changed, and bending over him was Andrew, examining his body. "No," he muttered, trying to shake the scene from his mind.

What was real?

Was Andrew his reality, or was it the shadow forms that poked at him with medical instruments?

Was there any difference by this point?

Emotionally and physically drained, his body still worn from the drugs he had attempted to overdose on, he switched his brain off, trying to numb the pain from the forced penetration. Words drifted in and out from around him.

_'...I assure you, perfectly ethical...'_

_'...You are living in a fantasy world, Spencer...'_

_'…Ethical?...Against his will...'_

_'...Your paranoia is out of control...'_

"Shut up," he mumbled, his voice weak. His worlds were blending together, no longer separate, no longer distinct. It made no sense, and it hurt, throbbing in his temples. He wanted to press a hand to his eyes to alleviate the pain of the light but the bindings prevented him.

Whether Andrew or the indistinguishable forms resided over him, he gave in. It was too much, and so he lolled his head to the side and let sleep overcome him, the exhaustion taking over.

The last words he heard were _'He is a patient in my psych ward, and I will treat as I see fit!' _And it was with a heavy heart that he realized it was a truth in both realities, and the two worlds he sought so hard to distance from each other were frighteningly similar.

xXx

Reid let out a harsh sigh, still asleep as he adjusted his position to gain some sort of comfort, though the leather straps and sling must've made the process an ordeal.

JJ didn't look up, only continued to stare at the hand she held between her own, smoothing her fingers over the rough lines of skin, highways and valleys that personalized Reid's hand like the maps he so frequently worked over. And just like his maps, they were now marked and branded with the ghosts of unspeakable crimes.

It was all too much.

The weight of the situation finally settled in on her shoulders and her knees were already beginning to buckle under the added weight. She had wanted this. No, she couldn't be cliché and say that she had been dreaming of his admittance to love for forever. Because she hadn't. She couldn't even look back and say, _'that right there is when I fell in love with him!'_ There was no such moment, no such specific point in the time line. She didn't fall head over heels, no love at first sight. In fact, she had been slightly put off by the eccentric genius- as most were. She remembered her eyes widening and reeling backwards at the quirks she had now come to love. And then, from there, she gradually adjusted to his outbursts, his momentary displays of apathy. Smiling through his long winded tangent while shooting sidelong glances at the apologetic looking Morgan and Hotch.

Tolerance became friendship, and she started to enjoy his presence, welcome his facts. She smiled when she saw him, the sense of familiarity warming her. She laughed at those rare moments he made a joke, worried herself senseless when he was present in any sort of danger.

And somewhere along the lines, she went from liking his company to wanting it. She was sad to leave him at the end of a work day, dragging out her goodbyes for as long as possible. She would arrange her paperwork, and rearrange it again, hoping that maybe Reid would give her an excuse to stay longer. And her heart lifted immediately when he spoke, his words becoming irrelevant as she tuned into the twitch of his lip, the glint in his eyes, the tilt to his head. She memorized his features, every inch becoming etched into her memory, every slight imperfection and deviation from symmetry cherished in her minds eye.

And the realization came suddenly, nothing big, no fireworks display, no bells. But a realization all the same that she loved him, and wanted to be the one to hold him after a nightmare, to make him his morning cup of coffee.

He had confessed his love for her, and, in regret, tried to run away from her. If anything, his episode had been proof of one fact: she had no right to take his words at face value. She had stood by his side, she had literally hugged him and told him it would be okay, wiped his tears. It was possible, likely even, that he didn't really love her.

Her chest hurt at the thought, that she was nothing more than a vessel who had played into what he needed and he had desperately latched onto what she gave. But she couldn't disillusion herself.

Reid was hurt, he was in pain, and he was in need of someone who would give him love and patience, and close their eyes against his embarrassing breaks in realities and roll with his punches. He could've easily confused gratification of this need with love.

And even if he did love her, and had simply been too uncomfortable to share this with her, it wouldn't be fair of her to make anything of what he had said. He couldn't maintain a romantic relationship. He wasn't stable enough for that, and any hope of him being able to was put on hold for years now.

No matter what she tried to tell herself, she couldn't have a life with Reid. Not this Reid. Maybe he thought he loved her, maybe he thought he needed another's love. But the truth remained that she couldn't accept his love, knowing she would forever question if she was what he truly wanted, or if he only wanted her for what she represented.

"Excuse me?" a harsh voice said from the doorway, and she looked up to see the nurse from before- Nurse Ratched, as she affectionately referred to her- standing with hands on her hips. "Visiting hours are over. You can come back in the next block, at five." And with that she turned, a scowl in place.

JJ rolled her eyes, hoping that a shift change would remove the nurse before she returned to visit with the rest of team. She focused her gaze back to Reid's sleeping form, his eyes twitching beneath the unnaturally dark lids and the corners of his mouth occasionally flinching.

Maybe when he was healthier, happier, she might trust his words enough to return them. But not now, not when the only time he looked at peace in the world was with the heavy burden of sedatives and exhaustion, dulling him into a forced, dreamless sleep.

Sighing, she gingerly squeezed his hand and rose from her chair, placing a chaste kiss on his lips before leaving the room- and his confession of love- behind.

But she didn't have much time to think over her visit, for as she stepped out into the hallway of the psychiatric ward, a voice pulled at her memory, pushing and pulling deep into her subconscious. The gravelly, rough yet endearing voice filled her head, drawing out images and scenes from within her hippocampus.

"Visiting hours have just passed, I'm sorry."

"I can't go in even for a little bit? I traveled very far to come here and I-"

"I'm sorry, sir, but you can return at five."

The face was finally paired with the voice, and her eyes widened. _'No,'_ she thought. _'It can't be.'_ She couldn't believe it, and she turned around to face the nurses' station, needing to reaffirm what couldn't possibly be true. But it was, and she let out an audible gasp of surprise when she saw the man standing only feet before her, now turning in her direction at the noise.

And she said, in a low incredulous whisper, "Gideon?"

xXx

Morgan sat outside the courtroom, his brain wired on coffee and adrenaline as he sat beside Garcia who was worriedly filing her nails, making a small exclamation of pain every now and then as she brought the emery board a little too close to her skin.

The trials had come to a close, and tomorrow the defense attorney and prosecutor would be giving their closing arguments and then the jury would be set off to determine the fate of Heath Varney. It seemed surreal that after all this time, all this commitment and dedication, it would come to a close. There would be an official note on the case file that it was over, solved and the criminals put away, and the file could be slipped into the archives. And then...what?

Would they move on? Continue in their life as they had before? Morgan would be off of suspension shortly and would return to his team, and Reid could begin his therapy for real, the comfort and security of knowing that the men who broke him were locked away.

But there were so many ways it could go. So many alternatives. There was always the chance Reid wouldn't pull through, or that he would never quite be Reid again. It was almost scary, to think of the unknown. Before, the future had been so certain. They would go on, fighting UnSubs and saving innocents, eternal and present as they were. That wasn't the case anymore. It felt uncomfortable and overwhelming, having what should've been a set in stone path had now been entirely destroyed, unwritten and up to the fates.

It hurt to think, his eyes struggling to see but squinting against the pain of being kept open. The caffeine pumping through his body had created an off kilter effect, his mind dizzy and in need of sleep but his body searing with activity, ready to move if necessary and his skin crawling over his bones. He needed, sleep, not coffee.

"Agent Morgan?"

He looked up, furrowing his brow at the police officer before him. "Yes?"

"Varney is asking to speak to you," he said slowly.

"What?"

"Well...not you specifically. He wanted to speak to Agent Hotchner originally, but when I said he was unavailable, he asked for any one of you guys," he corrected, rolling his shoulder forward.

Morgan nodded, sucking in his lower lip and chewing it thoughtfully. "Did he say why?"

The officer thought back for a moment before shaking his head. "No. Do you want me to find out for you?"

He turned to look at Garcia, who sat in obvious attention now, her lips parted slightly as she looked between Morgan and the officer. He rose an eyebrow, as if asking for her opinion. But she only shrugged, her voice small as she said, "What about Reid?"

Morgan stared at her for several seconds afterwards, their eyes carrying on a conversation the officer was not privy to. And then, slowly, he sighed and turned back to the other man.

"No, it's alright. I'll...I'll speak to him," he answered, not truly realizing what that implied. Had he really agreed to sit in a room where he would be forced to interact with Varney, and not throttle him? What could the man even want to say to him?

As he stood and followed the officer down to the courthouse holding cell, he found himself tightly clenching his fists, the muscles in his hands and arms tensing with the motion. His nails dug into his rough skin, and he closed his eyes, wishing Varney's neck was resting in the palm of his left hand, and Andrew's in his right. His limbs twitched with the want, and he could suddenly understand why an UnSub might feel like he had to kill someone.

He entered the hallway of holding cells, the ground level of the building, each side lined with two cells.

"Last one on the right," the officer said, pointing needlessly in the direction as though the layout were more complicated than it was. Morgan followed ahead, glancing in through the window as he waited for the door to be unlocked.

The expression on the ex-officer's face was absolute boredom, like he had better places to be outside of the jail cell, like he was missing out on poker night with his friends. His chin was resting in his hand, elbow sliding slowly over the table. The relaxed expression made Morgan tighten his fist.

The door swung open, and Varney pulled back in his chair, leaning fully against the hard metal backing and folding his hands on top of each other. He smirked up at Agent Morgan, his eyes alight the way they had been at that first day they met. Had his eyes shone that way from youth and joy, like he first speculated, or simply because he was sizing up everyone he met. Examining them and seeing if he would want them, if they would fit his victimology. Were his eyes glittering that way because he saw Reid and knew he'd be perfect?

Morgan pulled up the chair on the opposite side of the table, plopping himself down as he clenched his jaw and crossed his arms over his chest.

"What the hell do you want?"

Varney started to chuckle. "No time for pleasantries, Derek?"

His jaw tightened. "I don't give a damn about being pleasant with you," he spat venomously, snarling with the words.

Varney sighed in exaggeration. "No...I suppose you don't." He smiled here, suddenly and quickly as though struck by a wonderful and exciting memory. "I thank you for taking the time to see me. I honestly didn't expect any of you to accept the invitation-"

"You have five minutes," Morgan pressed, sparing a glance at the watch wrapped around his wrist to begin the countdown.

The man stilled, his mouth snapping shut as he sobered. "Alright..."

Looking upward at the offensive and glaring light, he chewed his lip and said, "Now, you and I both know I'm going to jail."

"Where you belong," Morgan snapped, looking at his watch. Thirty seconds had passed.

Varney nodded slowly, as if in resigned agreement. "Sure. See, Agent Morgan, there is something that's been weighing on my mind, and I had hoped that I could...put it at piece, so to speak," he started, nodding his head to the side for emphasis on the words.

Morgan narrowed his eyes. Was he...asking for help? He shook his head before he could even feel the motion, his neck swiveling to the side as he said furiously, "There's nothing you could say that would make me want to help you.

Varney looked affronted. "I don't want you to help _me_. It's my family that needs help."

"What?" Morgan asked incredulous, the surprise clear in his voice.

"I need someone to help my family," the man repeated, indifferent to the agent's shock.

"What the hell is your problem?" Morgan whispered lowly before he could even stop himself. And then he lost control of his mouth, the words coming through without his volition, spitting poison with each hard letter. "I'm getting pretty confused here, Varney. Are you a sadistic murderer or a family man?"

Varney lowered his gaze. "I didn't kill anyone-"

"No, no. Of course not. You just led them to a madman, brutally raped them and hid it up so the police officers- the _real _police officers who actually care about people- had a dead end trail to follow. No, you're not a murderer, of course not," he near yelled, slamming his hand down on the table as he moved in his chair, wanting to run around and jog off his rage.

The man before him seemed to shrink several feet, his face sullen like a berated child. If Morgan hadn't known better, he would say he looked ashamed. But he did know better, and he knew what this man was capable of, the things this man had done without a second thought. The people's live he had ruined, the lives he let be destroyed. He knew who this man was, and he also knew sociopaths were excellent at faking emotions.

"What the hell is going on, Varney? What are you trying to get?" Morgan demanded, leaning his full weight towards the table as he laid his arms atop the surface.

Varney shook his head, his lower lip quivering. "I just...they need help, agent. My wife..." he closed his eyes, pressing the lids firmly together as several fat tears slid down his cheek. "My ex-wife can't work. She was in a car accident a long time ago but her body never recovered and she can't do any type of work. Shawn...he needs to get into a good college and he can't do that if he has to start working as soon as possible just to pay the bills and-"

"And what do you expect me to do about that?" Morgan answered, his voice shaking a little more than he would have liked. There was something too real about the tears, about the slight, pinched tightness to his voice, the way his words wavered over his tongue like it was a struggle to get them out. It didn't seem like an act, it seemed like the genuine concern of a father.

Varney bit his lip. "I just...don't want them to get lost into the system..."

Morgan looked at his watch.

Three minutes, twenty-two seconds had passed.

"They're my family-"

"And what about the victims' families?" Morgan pressed, covering his broad torso with his arms. "What about them? Don't they matter? Or is it only when you're family is jeopardized that you care?"

"Don't punish them!" Varney yelled, his voice strained like it was being pulled taut. He raised his head, his face tear streaked and blotchy with random patches of heated, red skin. "It's not their fault I did this...they deserve as much help as anyone else."

An uneasy silence settled over the two, and Morgan had to turn away, the look in the man's eyes too...too human. It was an odd thing, truly. Normally it was the lack of humanity, the monster lurking within the shadows of the pupils, that made a shiver run down his spine, shaking the individual bones and cartilage. Wasn't this what he and every other profiler wanted? Wasn't that their job? To not just catch the criminal, but to understand him? To make him human?

And hadn't Varney just become so very human?

He didn't like it.

This wasn't supposed to happen. They had already signed off on the profile, had already classified him as an apathetic sexual sadist. It wasn't right. This just didn't happen. They hunted down UnSubs, and subconsciously categorized them into two types- the UnSubs who deserved no empathy, and the UnSubs who pulled at their heartstrings, the ones who were victims themselves, the mere product of an abusive household, of an even more sadistic mind.

This wasn't supposed to happen. There was no middle ground- there couldn't be a middle ground. It would complicate things, it would breach that territory where there ethics were questioned, where they had to acknowledge that someone could be a monster of their own making, but still very fleshy, still very human, and still very in need of human things.

Where there should have been scales and horns, there was instead skin, flawed with age, and hair, graying with stress. Where there should have been practiced nonchalance, and hatred, there was desperate fear and unconditional love for the children who had most assuredly disowned him as a father, who ignored the fourth, empty chair at the table and talked over his space like he never existed. This wasn't what a monster looked like, this wasn't what a monster sounded like.

Repressing the urge to clench his eyes shut and cover his ears the way he would when he was a young boy and in the midst of a temper tantrum, he closed his eyes against the building pressure in his temple and said, "And what do you think I could do for you?"

"You know as well as I know that...having...this in your family makes you a pariah. If I know my wife..." he paused again, grimacing as he swallowed and corrected, "Ex-wife, she's already planning to move across the country to get away from everyone...it's a small town. And my kids...all it will take is for one college to look at their history and see...who they're from and turn them down."

He raised his arms up on the table, lowering his head into his hands. "I know you have the connections...I...please. You're supposed to help people." He looked up, his face composed though blotchy with the whisper of his worries. "So help my family."

The FBI agent was silent, his mouth hanging open slightly as he stared at the man before him, unknowing what to say.

But what do you say, to the man who single handedly turned your whole world upside down, altered everything you had? The man who ruined your best friend, turned your brother against you? And then asked for help?

Not only did he ask for help, but Morgan knew he was right. The children- Shawn and Lilly Varney- would be forever ostracized. And they would fall through the cracks. He had seen it a thousand times before. The mother would become an invalid, too ashamed of her past and too depressed to work and socialize. And the kids would scrabble by, maybe giving out a fake name, trying to become as anonymous as possible. He had seen many a child drop out of school to pay the bills the mother could not, when the father was in the hands of the justice system- if they hadn't been taken away by social services before them. And while he abhorred the man before him, would it be right to ignore the innocent children- now eleven and eight- simply because of this loathing?

But what do you say?

Shaking his head, he pushed his chair back and stood up. He looked at his watch.

"It's been five minutes," he stated, his heart rushing and his ears drumming as he turned on his heel and knocked on the door, the officer opening it seconds later.

"Agent Morgan," Varney called, pleaded.

But he didn't turn back.

If Morgan had turned around before slamming the door, he would have seen the man crumple, his head resting in his folded arms as his shoulders gave the slightest of shakes. The monster had just been slayed, and he did not like how the blood covered his guilty hands.

xXx

**Author's Note:**** I have no idea why, but this chapter was an ordeal to write. I must've written at least five versions, and this was the one I settled on. Honestly, I'm not too happy with the result, but I think it's decent enough to post. Perhaps it could be that the story is finally coming to an end (I SWEAR THIS TIME!) and ending subplots and the story all at once tends to make everything kind of chunky.**

**And, as Mary Sue and dramatic a character as Gideon was, I loved the role he played for Reid, and would be remiss to not include him in a story where Reid's tragedy was publicized so thoroughly. I wrestled with doing it for so long, and finally caved.**

**Let's play a game! Answer these questions in your review and get a prize! **

**1.) What do you think Hotch and Reid discussed? The answer will be revealed next chapter, but what do you think could've been talked about to give Reid a new lease on life? 2.) Varney's lawyer has worked with what he had, and turned his whole case into a slander defense against Reid's mental instability. Because of this, Varney's convinced he's going to jail and revealed a new side of himself in this chapter. Do you feel any differently about him? Hate him more? Hate him less? Hate ME more? 3.) How do you feel about Gideon coming in to visit our favorite genius? How do you think everyone else will react? 4.) How would you like to see this story end?**

**Again, thanks for all your patience and understanding! You're all such a wonderful group of readers.**


	37. Chapter 37

**Disclaimer:****Criminal Minds and all its associated characters are property to CBS and no profit is being made from this story.**

**Author's Note: ****So there really isn't any excuse for the long wait of this one, but aside from a lot of personal crisis and stress, my computer deleted all the progress I had made on the following chapters. Not a problem! I have a flash drive...except idiot me hadn't saved it properly and...while the story was written in it's fullness at one point...I accidentally lost it all. So I'm very sorry and thanks for all your patience, support and reviews. The rest of this story should be posted shortly.**

**xXx**

**Chapter Thirty-Seven: I'll Think of You**

_'You know that place between awake and sleeping, the place where you can still remember dreaming? That's where I'll always think of you.' -J.M. Barrie_

_xXx_

Reid groaned, raising his hand up and rubbing his heavy eyes, groggy and his brain fuzzy with sleep. His body ached, and he found his shoulder blades stiff and his legs struck with the sensation of pins and needles. He had vague chunks of memory surfacing in his mind, talking to JJ, filled with insurmountable anxiety, everything blurry.

_'Must've had a flashback,'_ he thought, the heat rising in his cheeks. Great. What a Prince Charming he had to have been, professing his love, regretting it, trying to get away and then having yet another episode. Was it too much to just once not succumb to the awkwardness that had plagued him since childhood? Why couldn't he be more like Morgan, confident and sure of himself, handsome and the apple of every girl's eye? Or even like Hotch. Wasn't he the quintessential man of mystery, the dark and brooding handsome stranger whom a woman would think of, long after a chance encounter, nothing more than a passing glance during a jog, or the businesslike greetings of meeting in an office? Hotch was the type that would raise questions in the mind- why does he look so solemn? What is it about his eyes that can manage that balance of precision, caution and safety? What made him a force to be reckoned with, but a strong pair of arms to hold you, a lean torso to defend you from whatever UnSub crawled from the cracked surface of God's most imperfect men?

No, Reid was the type of guy you looked at and laughed at his sinewy limbs, extremities that were sometimes cumbersome and foreign to his body as he tripped over his own feet. He wasn't the one you felt safe with, the one you knew could protect you. He was the kid that only had girls partner with him in class because he was a guaranteed A.

He knew no one was perfect, and he was proud of his intellect, however unsociable facts about tedious chemical reactions were. But, like everyone, he sometimes wished he could abandon who he was and start over, fresh, with a new template. If only for a few hours.

Maybe it was better he had created a fool of himself in front of JJ. She deserved better than him, someone like Morgan or Hotch, or maybe a mixture of the two. Certainly anyone but a lanky genius who know the creases and slightly uneven ridges of paper in his books better than he did the function of social interaction.

"She's better off," he mumbled, rubbing a hand over his face.

"Who is?"

He froze. This was how it started wasn't it? Insanity? Was it possible his episode had not ended as he thought, and he was thrown back once more into the hell and torment that was his mind? He knew how it worked, that hallucinations- auditory and visual were nothing more than the result of memories mixing with the functioning cables of your brain, confusing the voices of loved ones, sounds from long ago, images from a movie watched in early childhood, for your surroundings.

That voice- it belonged to Jason Gideon. His mentor, his colleague, his stand in father figure. The man who, just like his biological dad, left without a word, a note the only sign of thought. Surely, his brain was betraying him again.

_'JJ definitely deserves better,'_ he thought with a tight lipped frown, reality setting in. He should've known it was too good to be true. He should've known he would be dragged back once more by his fractured mind and tainted blood, the blood of diseased genetics that made him what he was, what he would forever be.

"Spencer?" the voice- Gideon's voice- spoke again.

He thought about it, just ignoring it, turning on his side and hoping it would go away of it's own accord. But his curiosity got the better of him, and, in hopes of maybe, just maybe seeing a tangible body before him, he uncovered his hands from his eyes and looked to the side.

A table had been placed to the side of the bed, one of the feeding trays that was designed with a lever system so that the height could be adjusted for multifunction use. Atop the table was a portable wooden chessboard, the small, nickel hinges in the middle holding the two pieces of the travel case together. The pieces were all arranged, meticulously and with almost compulsive placement. Not a single rook or pawn was off by even one degree, the painted black pieces lined up on the side towards Reid, the glare of cheap, industrial lighting reflecting of the curved surfaces.

An army of wooden pieces, carved into simple icons, protected Reid from the opposing army of similarly designed pieces, polished in a slight off-white color. And, guarding their own master, behind the army sat Jason Gideon, a stern look in place, but not at all unfriendly.

Reid swallowed, his throat tight around his esophagus. He hadn't expected this. He was fully prepared to turn around and confront air, the stray particles caught in the sun's rays. An empty place before him, filled with nothing but the promise of a tortured mind. But not this.

He didn't truly think he would see the man that the voice belonged, in such clarity.

All he could hear was the hum of old pipes, the squeak of nursing shoes on the linoleum floors outside his room, and the thrum of his veins, the oxygen that flooded through his system and filled his lungs. Air escaped him. Words escaped him.

With nothing left at his disposal, he simply stared, his hazel eyes unblinking as they quivered over the form, searching for signs of deceit. But it seemed solid, and sturdy, and entirely too real.

They always did though. His hallucinations. How could he trust this, when everything else was so inconsistent?

After a tense moment of silence, Gideon finally spoke, his voice and the lips that moved simultaneously enrapturing the young man's attention. "Perhaps you would like to make the first move?" he offered, the gravelly texture to his voice pulling at Reid's insides, twisting the still weak organs. It was so perfect. So wonderfully Gideon. No hallucination could manage that tone, perfect the absolute levelness of each word spoken. No hallucination was so exact as this voice, this stabilizing and grounding voice.

But he couldn't respond. What if this wasn't real?

Would that be so bad?

Gideon had been more than a mentor to him. He had been the embodiment of what he never had but always wanted. And when he finally had it, too soon was it ripped from his hands. A note the only remainder that once Reid had been whole. But he couldn't bring himself to be angry, although he rehearsed a speech in his head of what he might say should he ever get the chance. A speech of empty promises and dashed expectations. But like a child who became furious with a parent, he soon forgot all animosity, all desire to yell, when the world became too chaotic and the only steadfast thing in life was the unconditional love of family.

He wanted it to be real, but if it wasn't, he didn't want the illusion to end.

So he remained silent, afraid his voice, high and falsetto in comparison, would shatter all that remained of the closest he came to a real father.

Sensing that his companion would not soon speak, Gideon smiled loosely, the wrinkles at the end of his thin lips deepening as they were pulled into a foreign position on his face. "I want to see the direction you choose," he said slowly, gently pushing the board in a circular manner so that the armies were switched, the white side now ready for Reid's disposal. "Offensive or defensive."

The former agent sat back now, the chair creaking under the movement. He waited, patiently, for Reid to make the first move.

Minutes were drawn out before he admitted in a voice low and quiet with humiliation, "I...I don't know if any of this is real or not."

Reaching forward and extending his arm out across the board, Gideon grabbed the top of the white pawn, four in from the left and moved it ahead two spaces for Reid. "Real or not...the longer you wait, the least likely you are to get to make the opening move."

xXx

"Have I ever told you the story of the King and his quest for knowledge?" Gideon asked, moving his rook deftly over the board and claiming one of Reid's pawns. The game was now at it's height of action, and Reid was distressed to see the effects of being so out of practice. However, the older man was being patient, allowing Reid to take ten minutes at a time to scan the board in search for the best move. But even ten minutes didn't seem to do the trick, as the collection of white pieces held to the side was startlingly large compared to the meager six black pieces- all but one knight pawns.

Reid shook his head. "Not that I recall," he answered modestly.

Gideon smirked. "If you don't recall, than I clearly didn't."

Clearing his throat, he started the story as they continued to work over the black and white tiled surface. "Long, long ago, there lived a king who decided he wanted his son to have all the knowledge there was in the world. So, he sent out several of his most trusted advisers and gave them the daunting task of collecting all the information they could within a text for him. A year passed, and they returned with hundreds of books, written and containing all the knowledge they had found from the world.

However, the king was put off by the amount of tomes to read and asked that they shorten and condense it all. So they returned, once more, instead with one large book. Still, the king thought it too long and had them condense it further. When they finally came back, they had only one sentence."

Reid furrowed his brows, his eyes raising in confusion to look at Gideon. "But that's impossible...you can't learn everything in one sentence- there's too much."

Gideon paused as he perused the chess board, his fingertips slowly gliding over the crown of each of his pieces as he thought of his move. Without looking up, he continued the story. "The king, finally satisfied with the length, accepted the sentence and then read it for himself. It said: _'This too shall pass.'_"

Reid looked up, his head turned to the side as he ruminated on the anecdote. He was perched on the edge of his bed now, his long legs curled underneath him and his hands resting in his laps, the chess game forgotten now as he bit down on his lip. "But...that's not...knowledge," he said finally, seeming like it was a struggle to admit he disagreed with Gideon's charming little tale.

The man rose a brow in response. "It's not?"

He shook his head. "No, it's not. I mean...how can someone learn math or...or science...or history from...that? It's nothing but a fortune cookie saying," he said, his shoulders rising and falling as he idly moved a piece as Gideon motioned to the board, his patience waning.

"But it's very true, wouldn't you agree? Every war, every misfortune humanity has suffered...eventually it does end. Everything passes, at one point or another. And, _this too shall pass,_" he said, raising his index finger and pointing it in Reid's direction.

Reid lowered his gaze, his eyes falling onto the chessboard. He was backed into a corner, so to speak. There was no way to win, not for him anyway. It wasn't surprising really. He hadn't practiced chess in a year, and, even when he did, he hardly ever won against Gideon. Sighing, he moved his knight, allowing it to be picked up deftly by Gideon in his next move. He was near giving his pieces away at this rate, and he winced internally at the awful technique. Maybe he should purchase a chess set to take with him to the hospital so he could at least do something productive.

Gideon, deciding to take pity on the former agent, claimed the king.

"Checkmate," Reid mumbled for him, taking to the task of cleaning all the pieces off the board. But he stilled in the chore as Gideon carried on, his voice low and each word filled with purpose.

"Believe it or not, you're life will return to normal. Nothing can stay broken for long, Spencer. This sadness will end-"

Something snapped within him, like his emotions were nothing more than a tightly wound up ball of twine that Gideon dove into haphazardly and cut out without thought, the slim strands of metal bursting free and unfurling with startling momentum, snapping through the air like a whip that broke the sound barrier. His chin rose high in the air, his eyes narrowed uncharacteristically. "It's not _sadness_, Gideon. Sadness mean that I overall feel melancholy and unhappy for a moment, a fleeting feeling."

The man, momentarily put off by the sharp mood change and hard glint in the caramel colored eyes, quickly regained his composure and said evenly, "Than what is?"

Reid thought for a moment, the hollow of his cheek alternately becoming cast in light and shadows as he clenched his jaw. "I can be happy, angry, sad, nervous, worried, scared...it doesn't matter, because it's superficial. I'm not always moping about, because I'm not overcome in _sadness_. It's..." he struggled, groping around for the right word. "Hopelessness. Like no matter what- whether I'm frowning or smiling- it's not enough. I'm not...sad. I...I don't feel the need to cry and I don't want to die-"

He stopped, blushing here as he realized the contradiction of his words. He was in a hospital, in as much health as could possibly be expected of him, and had been admitted on his actions. Of his brash and foolish decision to swallow pills. Clearly, some part of him did hold a desire to die, didn't it?

He rephrased himself then. "I don't want to kill myself. I just...don't understand why I need to put up a fight when in the end...I'll die anyway. And so will everyone else. There's no such thing as a footprint. In billions of years, the son will die and implode, taking the earth with it. And who's to say that we'd even still be here by then anyway? Chances are we'd die off, wouldn't be an unusual occurrence, we're no different than any other species.

"Maybe, in a thousand years, all traces of human life will be gone. Dead- everyone will be dead. And it won't matter if you were Adolf Hitler, Nelson Mandela or Robert Frost- what you did in the world won't mean a thing if no one else is there to even remember it.

"So why bother? There's nothing for me to gain by living...I haven't a family..." he blushed here, once more, thinking about his mom cooped up in the industrial walls of a long term psychiatric care unit, and his father, his whereabouts unknown and uncared for, as he was most certainly in a drunken, angry stupor, wherever that may be. And he was certain JJ had been repulsed by him early, and he was thankful he had missed out on that reaction, and surely she would move on to find someone else. Reid, at a steadily growing age, would not settle down. He had no way with women, hardly even cared for specific company, only company in general. No future wife would be gracing his mattress, no future children would be driving him mad and drawing within the margin of his beloved text, marring the crisp, white pages. No family to love.

Clearing his throat, he added, "At least, not a proper one."

"I don't have a proper family," Gideon stated, his lips pursing slightly as they often did when he tried to be matter of fact to make a point. "Does that mean I should die?"

He wasn't sure exactly what he expected Reid to say to his question- to be honest, he wouldn't have been surprised if the man had quickly snapped his mouth, mumbled an embarrassed apology, and turned away, afraid he had offended his former mentor. But Gideon had seemed to forget that that was the old Reid, the one he had left behind more than five years ago. And while he knew his condition would be bad, his depression most assuredly one of the worst cases he had seen, he had not expected it when, instead of clumsily apologizing, the man responded with a curt, "You will anyway."

He let the shock show on his features, the lines of worry on his face deepened even further. For perhaps the first time that he had been in this room- the first time in nearly an hour and a half, he saw Reid for who he was, not who he had been.

The sight of injuries and bruised flesh was not a new decorum to see littering the young man who seemed to nearly prance into booby traps, even back when Gideon was still working for the BAU, so he had easily dismissed them as nothing more than a physical imperfection, a side effect of being Reid. Even with his years of profiling and experience, he made what he would consider a rookie mistake.

He hadn't wanted his idea of Reid- the man who was a surrogate son to him- to be tarnished with this new version of the man. The traumatized, abused man who looked worlds apart from the man he had been. Gideon didn't want to see what had happened to his son, so he didn't let himself see it.

But now, still reeling from the mental slap of his cold words, he could all but drink in the changes, his eyes studiously examining every inch of ivory flesh and comparing it to memory.

He was thinner, his skin sallower. The faint ghost of frown lines were now forming amongst his tightly pinched lips, and the crinkle atop of his brow could only be seen in just the right light, at just the right angle. And the dull, freckled appearance of gray hair could be seen at the start of his temples, silver, now, under the imposing lighting. But his eyes...they were something else entirely, like he had borrowed them from someone else, someone older, someone who had seen more horrors than the mind could bear.

Thin, red lines were creeping out from the corners of his eyes, trailing to the center where stood the iris and the pupil. And the little rays that surrounded the black sphere seemed more weighed down then he previously remembered, as if someone had gone over them with a wider brush, in a muddier color. The rim of the pupil was darker, and thicker, leaving very little room for the kaleidoscope of colors that Gideon recalled his eyes being. But the blues and greens and browns had been replaced by darker hues, the overall tinge a deep honey color, with a bold gray blotting it out like a smudge.

Gideon was forced to look away, slightly disconcerted by the man before him who was nothing more than a poorly, half put together doppelganger of the man who would walk to an UnSub unarmed, confident enough in humanity to believe that not everyone was as evil as they seemed, that even a deranged psychopath could be coaxed into putting down a gun without having one leveled at him as well.

Reid's voice, timid now and reminding Gideon, in relief, of the man he once knew, said, "I don't want to feel this way. And I'm trying...I really am...but it's not sadness, it's something...something worse."

"You're depressed," Gideon suggested, trying to shake of the chill he had acquired and resume his almost clinical speculation.

But Reid adamantly shook his head. "But I'm not. I know there are reasons to get up in the morning, and I don't feel depressed. I just...everything's lost...meaning," he ended feebly.

"Like someone sucked all the color out of you life, and left bland black and whites?" Gideon offered, a slight smirk forming.

Reid nodded eagerly, nearly falling forward with the relief that someone knew how he felt without feeling the need to call in a psychiatrist. "How do you-"

Gideon's smile wavered slightly. "You're not the only one who's suffered. You're just the only one to suffer directly under an UnSub's hand for long enough that your mind had to protect itself."

At those words, the young patient blanched, the pallor of his skin turning even lighter now as the tips of his ears tinged pink. He was right, of course. Hotch, while having been attacked by George Foyet, had suffered the even greater lost of his wife. And Gideon, years before even the infamous Boston Reaper made his existence known again, had lost his girlfriend- as well as a young woman he had worked tirelessly to save- at the hands of Frank.

It wasn't necessarily that Reid had forgotten of these tragedies, it was simply that he had been so wrapped up in his head, in his constant onslaught of memories. And even though Reid was the only one to live through a week of unimaginable hell, the two strongest men he'd ever known had lived through their own as well.

"Hotch...he talked to me earlier, about Hayley's death," he said, unsure exactly of why it was important.

Gideon smiled. "He cares about you, Spencer. He doesn't want to lose you. And for a man like Aaron, telling you something so personal is his way of letting you know that." The younger man nodded numbly, recalling his feelings of awe and entitlement that he had been allowed to be privy to such information.

Hesitantly, he asked, "What about you?"

"Sarah's death was devastating to me. But it was more or less Rebecca's death that led me to the decision to leave," he said, his eyes downcast to the floor.

Reid looked shocked. "Why?"

"Frank murdering Sarah was personal, but, if she had been the only one to die, would've only made me more dedicated to work. I had nothing left to lose after that. She was my family, the only person I cared to come home to. Without her, what was the point of wanting to come home? It would only solidify my sense of justice, and even more so, it made me more determined to catch the bastard.. But when he got Rebecca..." he shook his head and rose a shaking hand to his brow, where he pressed his palm firmly against it. He took a deep breath and continued, "Rebecca was supposed to be free. She had already experienced her lifetime trauma, and she moved on. She was successful. She was supposed to have a happy ending. But she didn't.

"It's hard, Spencer, when someone who was so young, who lived through so much, had to suffer not once, but twice. And on top of it...to be killed with that suffering. I needed to leave so that I could meet people who had never experienced one tragedy, let alone two. I had to forget that sometimes, people are given a second chance, only to have it destroyed."

The room was filled in silence then, as Reid swallowed heavily. His throat was going thick with tears and it hurt to have to press down against it, his eyes watering. But it was with great shame that he had to admit that the tears were selfish. For he was not crying over the remembrance of Rebecca Jacobs, or the lost of Sarah. He was crying over something so completely unimportant when stacked up and measured against the two.

Nonetheless, it brought both sorrow and red hot anger fresh in his veins, creating an off kilter high of emotions. And, through gritted teeth and tears, he said, "But why didn't you say goodbye?"

Gideon was unfazed. "I did say goodbye-"

"A NOTE!" Spencer yelled, snapping his spine up straight. "You left a note! A note is what you leave when you had to step out for milk and will be back in five minutes! Not when you're leaving with the intent of never coming back!"

He looked ready to continue yelling, to spit out bitter comment after angry accusation. But instead, he stared at Gideon, longingly, pleadingly, as though begging for him to relieve him of the burden of being upset and hurt for his actions. Or, more appropriately, inaction. But he couldn't continue to be angry, to actively seek revenge anymore. It was exhausting to remain on your haunches, ready to launch or run. It was exhausting to be on guard, to stare at someone a hair longer than necessary to search for any tell-tale signs of deceit. It was exhausting to always second guess whether or not what was being said was the truth or just another fabrication of one, someone lying to him for personal gain. After all the anger he harbored over the man, after every injustice he felt, he simply was too exhausted to be angry or distrustful of everyone. He needed someone to turn to, to fold their arms around him.

And throughout his whole life, up until his sudden leave, Gideon had always been that person.

His shoulders slumped, a defeat, a give to the inner want to just curl up and stop attacking everyone in sight. "A note..." he whispered, the slight, ungraceful choke of tears slithering around his words.

He felt the strong arms of his former mentor wrap around him, felt himself being pulled into his chest. And for once, for the first time, he didn't fall apart at the seams. He didn't dissolve into a puddle of tears and fragmented nightmares. Instead, he focused on other things, not the suffocating feeling of arms wrapped around him. He thought of how scratchy Gideon's sweater was on his dry skin. How the man smelled like coffee and old text books, like he spent his days and nights in the corner of a library, fueled only by caffeine and the constant desire to learn, to sink into the inner sanctum of the written world.

And instead of the rough feeling of hands bringing him back to memories of that week, it brought back memories of years before, when he was knew to the job and naïve to how the protector might be in need of protecting. He was drawn into those earlier cases, remembered the feeling of pride that came when he had found the key to the case in Arizona, Clara Hayes's obsession with the number three. He remembered discussing his nightmares, something he at the time had not been used to.

And even though Gideon repeated over and over again _I'm sorry, I'm so sorry_ he couldn't hear it, he was too busy perusing through older memories, ones that had been left forgotten, pushed aside by a mind too destroyed to care about the past, present or future. For the first time in a year, he melted into the embrace, cried without embarrassment, and smiled at the thought of memories from long ago.

xXx

"I'm telling you, Hotch, it was unsettling," Morgan said, shaking his head slowly and chewing on the inside of his cheek as he recounted his conversation with Varney and the chilling yet oh so _human _like requests the man made of him. As if he had the right to be human, as if he had the right to _care._ His fingers clenched tighter around the key ring he held in his right fist, the key for the large SUV poking out from between his index and middle finger. He could feel the metal indenting on his palm as he did so, but he couldn't stop himself. He was just so frustrated! All he wanted to do was find the nearest gym and punch a punching bag until sand ripped from the seams and the frayed edges sprang apart.

What would've happened if he did that to Varney, punching him until his knuckles were torn and bruised? Would the man respond in the same way as a heavy weight bag, falling apart until sand particles fell from his wounds? Or would another substance escape the ripped edges of his skin, the lifeless and useless orifices? Would it be a poisonous gas? A venom? Mud?

All he knew for certain was that whatever made up the man- the _monster- _was something other than flesh and blood, something not so human.

"I'm sure it was," Hotch responded, his voice sounding distant and detached. He was too busy thinking over the enigma that was Heath Varney. The loving husband, the brutal rapist. The caring father, the vindictive murderer. It was unsettling, that was uncertain, that a man could genuinely live amongst others in this world, live a normal life, and not just be faking it for appearances. But at the same time, it was also a breath of fresh air. A nod that perhaps even God's most half-fashioned, most brutal creations were something more. That underneath the scales, the talons and thick skin, they were nothing more than the rest of us: a network of neurons that controlled the same base reactions. They were a bundled up chord of fear, of anger, of sorrow, of hope, of love, and of happiness. Maybe they were trapped. A man trapped in the facade of a monster, a demon having stolen his body. And every so often, the man would overpower the beast and poke through, a frightened prisoner to his own mind.

It was so hard to maintain a faith in a humanity in this job, crippling even. And as ironic as it were, wasn't that ultimately what there job was, to find a sliver of humanity in all of us? No one really wanted to know why a crime was committed. Motives were never a concern when you had several bodies to bury, several families who would mourn, several communities forever changed. No, what really mattered in the end was _'Is everyone capable of this, or is this just a fluke, some mistake made while the person was conceived? A chromosome out of place, a brain system ill formed, a chemical not behaving properly? Or is this merely the creation of man, not God, that have begot this beast? Was this murderer a product of nature, destined to kill since birth, or the product of our society, made that way from perhaps some undercooked meat, traumatic experiences, or toxins found in everyday products?'_

And in the end, Hotch was still never quite sure if it was a good thing or a bad thing to find the humanity in someone so detached from it.

"It's snowing," Morgan stated, shaking the older man from his reverie as he stepped outside the back door of the courthouse. And sure enough it was. A thin layer dusted the parking lot, coating the metallic surfaces of vans and cars and shielding the glass dividers of each vehicle from the world. The snow fell, lightly and slowly, as though taking the time to dance its way down, each snowflake performing its own ballet.

"A little early, isn't it?"

At this Morgan smiled. "You know what I think? I think we should stop by and get some hot chocolate and a book for Reid," he suggested, recalling how the man once said he enjoyed snow if only for a backdrop of some pleasant reading.

"I could go for some hot chocolate," Hotch agreed, a small smirk forming. Extra marshmallows. With whipped cream and cinnamon sprinkled on top. And he would drink through the sweetness of it, the foamy texture of melted marshmallows sticking to the back of his teeth, despite the fact that he hated marshmallows. Jack loved them, and would place a mountain of them so that they merely absorbed the hot chocolate instead of melting into it if left to his own devices.

But as the two walked along the lot, Varney forgotten as the kicked snow up in their path. A loud popping sound shook the air around them, expanding into the open space and disappearing into the atmosphere. They stopped in their tracks, swiveling around quickly to glance behind them. All they saw was the door, slowly falling into place in the frame as snow drifted around it, curtaining it off.

"Did you hear that?" Hotch asked, though he was quickly reaching for his gun, Morgan having done the same.

A pop, like bubble wrap bursting loudly enough to ricochet around the room. A pop, like a cork pushing through the neck of a wine bottle. A pop, like a gunshot in the distance.

Jaws tightened, fingers wrapped around the base of guns, feet spread into a defensive stance, one that would take the backfire of a shot. But silence followed, no more pops, no shouts, just eerie quiet, settling around them like a too thick down comforter.

And then, perhaps seconds, minutes, or days later, the door swung open, slamming against the brick exterior of the courthouse and creating a loud bang which shook some snow off the roof, the windowsill. In the doorway stood the tall looming form of Heath Varney, changed from a suit and tie to the dark green of state prison wear. The suit was, after all, only a show for the jury, a plea to remind them that this man was still a man, not a prison fixture. A plea that he could be like the rest of us. But it was only a show, and he was quickly forced to change after each trial so that he became that stigma, a beacon to the outside world that he did not belong. A chain was fasted around his waist, connecting to handcuffs that had only so much give to bear, enough slack to go about your daily necessities. And yet, Varney had managed to accommodate himself quite nicely, managing to steadily hold the stolen handgun and fix it upon the two FBI agents.

Morgan growled, a primal sound deep within his throat.

"Don't do this, Varney!" Hotch yelled, his voice commanding, aggressive.

But the man or monster before them didn't listen, steadily stepping forward, the barrel of the gun trained expertly as he moved. "I have to!" he called, a desperate twang filling his gruff voice that nearly startled the two men into dropping their weapons.

There was something feral about him, his blue eyes livid and untamed, roaming wildly around as though he were too paranoid to let them settle on a fixed surface. Hotch tightened his hold on his gun, his profiling mind already at work.

"Varney, it will only get worse for you! For your children!" he called, watching as the man trembled at the mentioning of his children, his young son and daughter.

But he regained himself once more, a new light in his eyes, a new determined edge to his voice as he said, "They're better off without me! They hate me now...they're embarrassed by me. What would you do, Agent Hotchner, in my position? What would you do if Jack hated you?"

It took all he had to not apply what little pressure was needed to squeeze the trigger, what little amount of effort it took to take a man's life. "Don't you dare," he warned, his voice lowering to a threatening point, "Ever mention my son again. You have no right!"

Varney stood, unwavering, his hands shaking as he looked behind him. They could hear it, the loud clattering of footsteps, the shouts of _'He went down here!' 'Get him!'_ They were coming for him, they were nearly there.

Varney looked at them, pleadingly, his eyes bouncing around frantically as he took several large bounds forward, the gun began to quiver in his hands. Hotch and Morgan stepped back, tightening the muscle in their arms as they held their position.

"Varney!" Morgan called, his voice growing louder. "VARNEY!"

A gunshot rang out, loud and defeaning. Varney froze, his body slouching as he dropped the handgun, chains ringing melodically with his movements. Red bloomed onto his jumpsuit, like a rosebud opening with the first few signs of spring, spreading each individual petal forward. He gasped then, his hands slowly finding the wound as he dropped to his knees, choking for air. Behind him stood several prison guards holding pistols, smoke emitting from the barrel of one.

"You alright, Agents?" one called, but they didn't hear them, as both Hotch and Morgan rushed forward, coming to kneel beside the fallen man, the murderer.

"Varney?" Hotch called, watching as the man blinked blearily up at him, his eyesight nebulus and wavering. He opened his mouth, as though to respond, but coughed instead, thick, dark blood spilling forward as his body racked with convulsive coughing. His eyes rolled backwards before settling on Hotch, shaking slightly.

Swallowing the thick blood, he managed to say, "What would you do...Aaron Hotchner...if Jack needed you...but hated you?" And with that, his body went limp, hands sliding from down his stomach as the fingers unfurled, his head tilting back against the snow. Blood blossomed around his body, seeping and staining the snowflakes beneath a dark, saturated red. Pink fingers reaching outwards and moving quickly as the blood continued to flow, never ending, spilling out all over the barely visible pavement. So much so, that Hotch and Morgan finally had to stand to avoid staining their pants.

Then it happened. His eyes, glassy and gazing off in the distance, dulled, almost instantaneously, his jaw slacked as the light from his eyes dissipated, the whites looking awfully gray as his chest stilled, holding in a breath he never got to release.

In a daze, Hotch and Morgan stumbled back, allowing the prison guards to crowd Varney, to declare a time of death, to call an ambulance, to gently close his eyes so that they never had to face the world anymore.

Hotch's whole body was alive, humming with activity as his mind played over the dying words over and over again, on an endless cycle. _'What would you do...Aaron Hotchner...if Jack needed you, but hated you?'_ It was an amazing thing, being a father. A wonderful responsibility, a task he was willing to face every day. He knew he would do anything for Jack, anything to see him smile, to see him laugh, to see him strive. Would he even die, letting himself leave this world if he knew it was Jack needed? He didn't even need to think on it. He knew, beyond a fraction of a doubt, that if Jack truly would be better off without him, he would die, in an instant. And he would go with a smile on his face, knowing that his son would be better off.

"Do you think..." Morgan started, his voice trailing off slowly as his eyes never left the lifeless man, as though waiting for him to spring into action.

"If he committed suicide, his children wouldn't have the burden of knowing a murderer was their father, but then..."

"Insurance," Morgan responded with a sigh. "His family couldn't collect insurance if it was suicide. Police gunfire...they can get insurance from that."

"What do you know," Hotch said, his voice low and stoic. "He did prove to be useful to his family after all."

They stood there, for heaven knows how long, watching as the ambulance came and pulled the body onto a stretcher, covering him with a sheet as though they were concerned about the effects the cold weather would have on a dead body. They watched as the guards gave their statements, as they crossed off the lot, as photographs were taken. They watched until they couldn't, until the stark contrast of red on white began to burn their vision. Watched until they had to look way and clamber into the SUV.

No one cared to point out that in the end, Varney bled not sand, not gas, not poison, not mud, but regular and thick blood. That in the end, his makeup was no different than the rest of us.


End file.
